


Wedlocked

by TaraSoleil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A bit of virginal terror, Arranged Marriage, Bodices, Books, Excessive Drinking, F/M, Like crazy angst, Looooooooooooooooooots of angst, Miscommunication, Pig-headed Hermione, Self-righteous Hermione, major angst, marriage law
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-04-08 02:23:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 41
Words: 103,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4287102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraSoleil/pseuds/TaraSoleil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione's sixth year is not going to plan. She's being hunted by Death Eaters, watched by the Ministry, guarded by the Order and has half her friends trying to get her into a bodice just for her new husband to rip it off. No, definitely not what she had planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rule Number One

Relief washed over her as she stepped from the charred fireplace of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, and a sigh escaped her lips. She felt like she had been doing nothing but sighing for the past week – sighs of frustration, sighs of understanding, self-loathing, longing, regret. This sigh, however, was fully welcomed by Hermione Granger. The Burrow, lovely, warm and welcoming as it was, was not the place she wanted to be at that particular moment.

For the past week, since the day the Daily Prophet trumpeted the news that would ruin her future, all the Burrow had to offer her was sympathetic looks and comforting hands. It was getting old. When faced with such loving gestures and looks, she could not respond with the anger she felt fully justified in expressing. She wanted to yell and scream and hex something to within an inch of its life – preferably one of the moronic Ministry workers who had allowed this travesty to occur.

No, she needed a place as black as her mood, and Grimmauld Place was it.

Kreacher shuffled past, muttering insults he did not realise or care that she could hear.

“Good afternoon, Kreacher,” she said politely.

The old house-elf glared at her. “It speaks to us,” he muttered. “The Mudblood speaks to us.”

“Who’s there?” a hard, dangerous voice demanded as the door flew open and her fiancé rushed into the kitchen with his wand raised. Seeing her, Sirius dropped his hand and smiled, “That was fast. I thought you’d hold out for at least another week before they sent you running. Come on, Remus is helping clean up. Another pair of hands is always welcome.”

 “Oh, to be useful again,” she gave a mockingly put-upon sigh. “Did you know that getting engaged means I’m incapable of doing anything? Honestly, they treat me like an invalid.”

“I hadn’t realised,” he said, and took her hand in his, patting it gently. “Perhaps you’d better sit down and have a brandy, then.”

She rolled her eyes and walked past him, fighting the smile that his behaviour brought her. Sirius had been nothing if not accommodating in all this. He had not chosen to marry her, and she did not imagine he was particularly pleased with the arrangement. Still, she never got the impression that he resented her. It was little comfort to her, though.

Following the loud banging up the stairs, she found her old professor on the third floor wrestling with a set of mouldy drapes. Remus Lupin. One week ago, he had been her first choice of fiancés, not because she loved him or harboured any secret feelings, but because he was intelligent and capable and she trusted him. Sadly, as a werewolf, his proposal would never have been approved by the Ministry.

“Redecorating?” she asked.

“Trying to,” he gave the curtains a dirty look before he turned to her. “Hermione…”

“Remus Lupin, if you try to console me, I will hex you!” she warned.

“What? No, I was going to ask for help.” He lied quickly and not in the least bit convincingly, but she let him get away with it after seeing how much trouble the window-hangings had been giving him. She nodded and followed him further into the room, leaving Sirius to snigger at his inept friend.

“This is your house, Sirius,” Remus scowled at him. “I should make you do this.”

“But you’re so much better at it than I am,” Sirius smirked and walked away.

“Git,” Remus muttered. “Sorry, I realise that’s your fiancé, but he really is a lazy prat. Fair warning: the man hates cleaning. He once went a year without washing a single piece of clothing, buying new everything whenever it got too dirty. …I suspect that was done on a dare, though.”

She snorted, imagining Fred and George doing something similar. “Who would have dared him to do that?”

“James,” he said, as if it were obvious.

“Anything else I should know?”

Remus paused as he approached the offending decoration. “Well, he—“ The curtain whipped out and wrapped around his head, cutting off his information along with his air. After a split-second of shock, Hermione waved her wand at the curtain aiming every spell she could think of at it. One of them worked and the fabric fell lifeless from the man’s face.

“Bloody curtain!” Remus gasped. Her calm and quiet professor of Defence cursed at the drapery twice more before throwing a spell at the fabric that caused it to catch fire. He wore a gratified smile as they watched the curtains burn down to ashes. “Right, what was I saying?”

“Um… about Sirius…” she said, warily.

“Yes. He smokes on the balcony when he thinks no one is watching,” Remus said, his brow knitting together in consideration. “You’ll catch him talking to himself, I’m afraid. I think he’s carrying on a conversation with his brother or James. Even now that his name is clear and he can walk around in public, it’s not easy. Not everyone believes he’s innocent and others haven’t been keeping up with the news. So he stays in more than is healthy.”

The girl suddenly felt guilty. Sirius’s present state of reclusiveness hadn’t even entered her mind. She had assumed, as did everyone else, that he went off for a laugh every chance he got now that he was free. That no one believed the truth had never occurred to her.

He was still a prisoner, just in a different sense, and she was adding to his stress and unhappiness.

Some meddlesome section of her being wanted to drag him to the nearest social event and force some interaction on the poor man, but she remembered that she did not want to be the nagging sort of wife who was constantly trying to improve her husband. She also remembered that she hated social events. The Yule Ball had been unbelievably taxing. Although, she had been the Durmstrang champion’s date and was the focus of quite a lot of attention. If she went with him to a Muggle social event like a play or to a museum, that might not be so bad. No one in the Muggle world knew him. His face had not been on the news for over two years, so he had likely been forgotten by all but the most avid of crime watchers.

“Don’t even think about it.” The deep voice of the man in question broke through her thoughts. “I know that look – I’ve worn it many times – and whatever you’re planning: Don’t.”

“What?” Hermione said with far too much innocence. “I was just thinking.”

“I know,” he said with that familiar smirk. “Don’t.”

“Are you here to help?” Remus asked.

Sirius’ smirk turned wicked. “No, I had a thought of my own.” He grabbed Hermione’s hand and pulled her down the stair to the entrance hall. “We haven’t informed my mother.”

“Oh,” Hermione’s eyes went round as Galleons as they turned to the dark, holey curtain that concealed the painting of his mad-eyed, fanatical mother. “Sirius, no. That is a bad idea.”

“I know,” he grinned and threw the curtain back. “Those are always the best kind.”

“SHAME OF MY FLESH! BE GONE FROM THIS HOUSE!” the woman shrieked.

“Mother!” Sirius smiled. “I’d like to introduce my fiancée, Hermione Granger. Her parents are Muggles.”

“TRAITOR! YOU DEFILE OUR LINE WITH THIS FILTH! MUDBLOOD! YOU DESECRATE THIS MOST NOBLE HOUSE—“

Sirius closed the curtain with a lazy wave of his wand. He breathed in deeply, a self-satisfied grin on his face. “That went well.”

“Can you really not remove her?” Hermione asked, somewhat shaken.

“Tried every spell I know, Moony and Moody, too,” he shrugged. “Even Dumbledore couldn’t get her down.”

“Those are all magical methods, though. She clearly never imagined a Muggle in her house. Have you not tried any Muggle ways?” She watched as the man’s smile fell into a frown and he blinked slowly.

“Like what?”

“Cut the canvas out of the frame,” Hermione suggested. “Throw paint thinner on it… I don’t know.”

“Paint thinner?” he parroted. “What is that?”

She exhaled slowly, irritated. Purebloods… They hated the Muggle world yet they knew so little about it. “It’s a chemical that will destroy the paint.” He still stared at her blankly, so she thought a different approach might work better. “Are there any shops nearby? Muggle shops, I mean.”

“Yeah, a few lanes over.”

“I’ll be back in a little while,” she said and left through the front door, shaking her head and almost laughing at the look of utter confusion on her fiancé’s face.

oOo

Hermione huffed through the door nearly an hour later. The plastic shopping bag in her hands weighed down by several cans of solvent from the small home improvement shop. She closed the door and stepped into the hall where Sirius still stood, waiting. Remus had joined him and they both looked rather perplexed, though Sirius had an undercurrent of expectancy to his stare. The bag crinkled as she dug into it and pulled out a metal can.

“Happy Engagement, Sirius,” she said and plopped the can into his hands.

He eyed it uncertainly, reading the bold-faced brand name on the front before opening the lid. “Oh, that is minging!”

His complaint was enough to set the Walburga Black shouting again. Hermione threw a silencing charm around her before the first insult even left her mouth. Sirius smirked at her reflexes before turning his attention back to the stinking can. Ever the king of caution and subtlety, he shrugged and doused the bottom of the portrait.

“It was worth a try,” he said when the paint did not immediately start to melt from the canvas. “Lunch?”

“Yeah,” Hermione said, dejected. She thought for sure the wizarding world had not thought of this type of solvent. They went to the kitchen together and ate in disappointed silence.

“I’m off, then,” Remus announced.

“What, are you tired? You’re getting old, Moony,” Sirius grinned.

“If I am, so are you.”

“Ah, but I have a pretty little fiancée to keep me feeling young,” he countered and took Hermione’s hand in his, making a show of kissing her knuckles.

Remus turned his long-suffering gaze to her, “I did warn you that he’s a git.”

“And the smoking and being a bit of a hermit, I remember,” she said.

“None of that talking about me behind my back stuff in my own house,” Sirius waggled a disapproving finger at the pair of them. “Rule Number One: No Laughing at the Master of the House!”

Remus snorted, and Hermione shook her head. “I think you’ll find,” she said, “that Rule Number One is No Pranking the Wife. We established that last week, if you recall.” It was true. Sirius, upfront and honest as he was, admitted that Fred had been chosen by the Order to be her husband until his twin spoke up, insisting the  girl was sixteen going on seventy and that Fred would have his wedding vegetables hexed off the first time he tried to prank her. When she nodded that it was the likely outcome, Sirius had shivered and made his new Rule Number One.

“Fine, Rule Number Two, then,” Sirius grumbled.

Remus snorted again. “And you made fun of James for being whipped.”

The master of the house glared at him and pointed to the door. “You can just leave if all you’re going to do is insult me, Messer Lupin.”

“As you wish, Messer Black, Miss Granger,” Remus bowed and left the room as Hermione did her best to not laugh at their foolishness. She tried to imagine what they must have been like while in Hogwarts without age and war and death mellowing them. Fred and George Weasley would have looked boring by comparison.

“SIRIUS!” Lupin bellowed from the entrance hall.

Sirius scrambled up from his chair and ran after his friend, fear evident in his face and panicked movements, but the werewolf was in no danger. He was standing in front of Walburga’s painting, staring open-mouthed at it.

“What the hell?” Sirius growled.

“Sirius,” Remus said again, quietly, disbelievingly. He pointed to the portrait. Hermione and Sirius looked and saw that the woman’s feet were gone. The paint was bubbling and blistering away from the canvas, destroying the portrait.

“I knew it would work!” Hermione crowed and did a small victory dance.

Sirius swept her into a rib-cracking hug, kissing her cheek and refusing to let go even when she complained that she couldn’t breathe. He held her so tightly that she could feel his heart beating out a triumphant rhythm and the vibrations of his laughter through his chest and into hers.

“I take back every complaint I made about having to marry you. I am the luckiest man in England, and I am going to buy you the most ostentatious engagement ring I can find. Moony, to Diagon Alley!” He dropped her back onto her feet with another kiss to the cheek before he swept past, grabbing Remus by the arm and hauling him from the house.

Hermione was left alone in the entrance hall, staring at Walburga as she spat her voiceless curses down at the girl. “Well, I wanted to get away from everyone,” she commented.  


	2. Books & Bodices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione gets a preview of married life.

Hermione’s stomach was letting her know that Sirius and Remus were taking far too long in Diagon Alley. She looked up from her book and sighed at the time, eight o’clock. The shops had to be closing soon. How many jewellers were there in Diagon Alley, anyway? There couldn’t be more than three, and, between the two of them, Sirius and Remus should have been able to pick up a single ring by now.

She wondered if it would be impolite to make herself some dinner or if she ought to go back to the Burrow. No one had contacted her via the Floo Network, so she assumed everyone knew she was all right.

“Maybe I should have asked if they wanted me back in time for dinner,” she considered.

The idea of being back in that house, overcrowded with people and overflowing with sympathy, made her face burn with anger. No, she would stick it out and wait for Sirius to come back. Besides, she had to keep an eye on the painting and make sure Kreacher did not try to repair it when her back was turned. The house-elf had already shuffled past several times, commenting to himself that he wished she would leave so he could fix it.

“Miss me?” a whisper came so close to her ear that she shrieked and fell from the couch.

“Dammit, Sirius!” she shouted as she rose. “That was not funny!” She smacked his arm and chest and head and everything else within easy reach, but he kept laughing at her. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Fine,” he said as his laughter finally settled into an amused chuckle. “I was just surprised you were still here.”

She bit her lip, “Actually, about that. Could I stay the night? I don’t want to have to go back to… _that_.”

“What’s so bad about it?” He threw himself onto the chair, somehow falling effortlessly into a perfectly elegant pose that Hermione could never hope to duplicate.

“They all keep telling me how sorry they are,” she sighed. “Molly is the worst, but Fred is over every night to tell me he wishes he could have talked them out of choosing you. Harry’s been avoiding me all week until today when he came in to ask if we had to have sex.” She noted his slight frown at the idea. “But Ginny has been telling me how wonderful it is that I’ll get to sleep with you.”

“Oh?” he quirked eyebrow.

“She walked in on you in the shower once last summer. She approves of what she saw.”

“Naturally,” he grinned.

“So, I would like at least one full day of nothing. No apologies, no sympathy, no sex talk, nothing.”

He threw his arms out wide, “You will find plenty of nothing here. Pick a room, you’re guaranteed to find nothing in it. Except Buckbeak’s room, there’s far too much shit in there.”

“Thank you,” she said and dropped her head back on the couch. Silence followed. He said nothing, which was precisely what she had requested. “Oh, I left the painting. I assumed you would want to destroy it yourself. I thought it might be some kind of catharsis.”

He smirked. “Revenge.”

“Pot-A-to, pot-ah-to,” she waved her hand. “Speaking of which, are you hungry?”

“Very,” he said. “Kreacher!”

The decrepit elf popped in next to his chair. “Yes, Master?”

“Is dinner ready?”

“Yes, Master Black, filthy blood traitor,” he replied.

“Good, we’ll be dining now. Do not touch _anything_ in the entrance hall,” he ordered. “And Hermione will be joining us for the night, make up a bed for her – no surprises or presents of any sort.”

“Yes, Master Black, shame of his mother’s flesh,” the elf bowed and vanished with a ‘crack’.

“He’s getting better, don’t you think?” Sirius commented dryly and offered her a hand in getting up. She took it, knowing that it was not an indication of her weakness or inability to get up on her own but just a gentlemanly gesture. Surprisingly, he held her hand gently all the way through the kitchen door and to the table, where he dropped it to pull her chair out with a courteous bow.

“Thank you,” she said uncertainly, slightly worried by his behaviour. “Sirius… you haven’t by any chance been reading romance novels, have you?”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “What if I have?”

She opened her mouth to say something slightly derogatory about the lower form of fiction, but thought better of it. He was a grown man, entitled to read what he liked… even if it was rubbish. He had been denied his freedom for nearly as long as she had been alive, and should be allowed to spend his precious time doing whatever he liked… even if it was wasting it on nonsense.

“Just wondering.”

“I haven’t,” he smiled.

“Oh, thank goodness,” she laughed. “I didn’t know what I’d do if all you read was bodice-rippers.”

He paused while bringing the fork to his mouth, and looked at her. “They make books of that?” She nodded and a thoughtful frown overtook his face. “How have I gone this long without knowing about them?”

She laughed again, blushing slightly at his honest interest in erotic novels. “I imagine you were too busy living it,” she replied.

“That is true. Though I don’t recall any bodices…” He brought the fork the rest of the way to his mouth and chewed while he considered it. “There was a girdle once. Put me off blonds for a year when she took that thing off after a few pints,” he muttered more to himself than to her. “And there was that one corset… but that was Halloween, so it doesn’t count.” He looked at her, “No, not a single bodice.”

“How unfortunate for you,” she commented, her pink cheeks taking away from her dry tone.

“It is,” he agreed with a solemn nod. “Although you could always remedy this very sad gap in my life.”

He smirked as her face grew redder still.

“I thought we agreed that there would be nothing,” she said, keeping her eyes on her plate. “That included no sex talk.”

“You brought it up, pet,” he reminded her. “You and your bodice-ripping books. I’m starting to wonder about your fanatical love of reading. You’ve read _Hogwarts: A History_ far too many times… Admit it, there’s something much more interesting hiding behind that boring cover.”

She clicked her tongue disapprovingly and ignored the insinuation, focusing on her meal instead.

“What would you say to a trip to Muggle London?” Sirius asked after several long minutes of nothing.

“Why?”

“Shopping,” he said. Something in his tone and the faint smirk pulling at his mouth made her wary.

“What for, precisely?”

“Books,” he smiled. “I know you like books.”

She studied him through narrowed eyes, waiting for him to make a crack about bodice rippers or erotic novels again, but he said nothing. “What sort of books?”

Her suspicious gaze had no effect on him and his smile remained firmly in place. “Whatever strikes my fancy,” replied the man lightly, a vague and elegant wave of his hand adding to his relaxed and in-no-way-am-I-plotting air. Hermione didn’t believe him for a minute.

“Well, I could do with something to read,” she replied hesitantly, unsure that she really wanted to go with him but desperate for something to keep her occupied while at the Burrow. She also recalled that Sirius did not venture into the world nearly as often as he should. That he willingly offered to leave the house was something special and she knew she ought to pounce on it.

“Fine,” she sighed. “Shopping it is.”

“Brilliant,” he grinned. “Where’s a good shop?”

She frowned. “I don’t know,” she had to admit. “I don’t get to London that often. We could go to Oxford. Blackwell’s has a wonderful selection and I’m sure will have something that will ‘strike your fancy’.”

“Fair enough,” he agreed. “I can meet your parents, too.”

“Oh bloody hell,” she moaned. “I forgot all about them.” Her head fell onto the table with a solid ‘thud’ and she kept it there while imaging the debacle which was sure to occur when the Grangers’ only child arrived with a fiancé twenty years her senior. Lead balloons would have nothing on that announcement.

“You do spend a considerable amount of time away from them,” Sirius observed. “Bad parents?”

“What?” she sat up, crossing her arms defensively. “No! They’re wonderful.”

His raised eyebrow indicated his question.

‘So much for nothing,’ she thought with a quiet sigh.

“They’ve seen me for barely three months of the year since I was started at Hogwarts,” she explained. “They haven’t had time to realise how close I am to being an adult, and still treat me like their baby. It’s wonderful for the first day, but then they start demanding I tell them where I’m going and with whom and for how long, trying to force me back into this idea they have of what I am.”

“You don’t strike me as the sort to put up with that. I’ve seen you browbeat Fred and George into submission,” he commented. “I’m sure even your parents couldn’t hold out against you for long.”

“That would require explaining things that would only scare them,” she said quietly. “After first year, facing all those challenges to reach Voldemort, I told them everything. I was so proud of myself and of Ron and Harry, but my parents just panicked. They spent the entire summer trying to get me to change schools, to forget about being a witch and stay with them where I’ll be safe. I haven’t told them about anything that’s happened since, not even when I was petrified. They’ve no idea how dangerous my life is, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

He cocked his head to the side, examining her. “So what do you plan to do about us?”

“Lie to them,” she replied simply.

“The truth might be easier,” he suggested. “And if they knew why we’re marrying, I wouldn’t seem like such a dirty old man.” The lascivious wiggle of his eyebrow that followed such a sombre suggestion had her giggling.

“You’re not old,” she smiled. “Certainly not in personality anyway.”

“Well, thank you,” he gave a mocking bow of his head. “I’ll remember that kind-hearted lie the next time you ask me if something makes your arse look big.”

“Git,” she muttered.

“Swot,” he retorted, still smirking.

They fell back into silence for the remainder of dinner, Hermione fretting over what to say to her parents. Sirius was right; the truth would make things considerably easier. Phillip and Martha Granger wanted the best for their daughter, and knowing Sirius was only stepping up to keep her safe would make them accepting of him on some level. Unfortunately, for that kind of understanding, she would have to tell them about Voldemort and the Death Eaters and everything that had happened to her in the last five years of school. If she did that, they were as likely to snap her wand and lock her away in her room as anything else.

No, lies were better.

Lies would keep them safe.

“Decision made?”

Hermione blinked and looked across the table to where Sirius sat watching her. “What?”

“You made a rather determined face,” he replied. “Does that mean you’ve made a decision?”

She nodded. “We’re going to lie to them.”

“As you wish,” he said, pushing a slice of pie across the table to her. “Now, have you come to any decisions regarding bodices?”

“No.”

“Is that a ‘no’ to decisions or a ‘no’ to bodices?” he inquired innocently.

The girl rolled her eyes and shook her head. Immature idiot. Hadn’t the Order rejected Fred as her fiancé for that same reason? Why on earth did they think Sirius would be any better? At least her parents would have been more accepting of Fred as he was only two years older and his immaturity would have been easier to explain.

“Kreacher,” Sirius called, breaking Hermione’s concentration.

The decrepit house-elf appeared by his side, glaring his prejudice at the pair of them. “Yes, Master Black?”

“Show Hermione to her room,” he ordered.

“Yes, Master Black, disappointment to his heritage,” Kreacher croaked and bowed to Sirius as he stood.

“I’m off to bed,” he declared. “Big day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“Should I clean up?” she offered.

“That’s what Kreacher is for,” he said indifferently.

The girl frowned. “You’re not even going to ask him politely?”

Sirius stared at her a moment, disbelief evident in his expression. His face darkened as he stepped closer. “That _thing_ nearly got Harry and you killed. It hates you. It would love nothing more than to see you dead at Voldemort’s feet, and you still think I should be _nice_ to it?”

She sometimes forgot how bitter Sirius was about his house-elf. It was a small wonder the pitiful thing was still alive after the great effort it had taken in June to help Voldemort. She knew, though, that it was not Kreacher’s fault that Walburga Black had corrupted him, left him alone with only her ranting portrait as company. He was half-mad, but still a creature with thoughts and feelings, still a creature worthy of sympathy and respect.

“Yes, I do,” replied the girl stubbornly.

“Fine,” he growled. “Kreacher, would you be so kind as to clean up the kitchen?” His face was contorted and his tone harsh, giving the words a hostile and hateful edge.

“As my master wishes, blood traitor,” the house-elf bowed.

“Happy?” he snapped.

“Not really, no,” Hermione sighed. “But it’s a start.”

Sirius turned and left the kitchen, the door slamming shut behind him. Hermione stared at the dark wood a moment, imagining how often such a scene would present itself in the coming years of her life. He might have his freedom, but Sirius was still temperamental at the best of times. If pushed into discussing a sore topic, he could become as dispirited or livid as he had in the final weeks of his house arrest.

Kreacher, it seemed, was the sorest spot of them all.

“Filthy Mudblood,” the elf muttered. “Taints this noble house with its presence.”

“Yes, this is going to be fun,” she commented sarcastically to herself.

She sighed and spoke again, more considerately, “Kreacher, what room am I in tonight?”

“The same as when you last slept here, Mistress, dirty creature,” the house-elf replied.

“Thank you,” she said with a forced smile. “I’ll find my own way. Thank you for cleaning up.”

Hermione walked up the stairs, pausing on the landing just outside Sirius’s bedroom. She could hear Sirius cursing through the closed door. A few crashes followed a particularly loud ‘dammit’ and then all was silent. She was not sure if he had put up a silencing charm or if he had run out of things to throw or the energy to throw them. Whatever the reason, she refused to listen any longer.

“I hate Voldemort,” she told her empty room and threw herself down on the bed, thankful Sirius had thought to keep Kreacher from leaving any ‘presents’. The last thing she wanted to find between her sheets was a dead mouse or a wriggling clump of maggots.

Was this really what she had to look forward to for the rest of her life?


	3. Sharp Dressed Man

Hermione paused, her hand on the door. Did she really want to go in? She had not left on the best of terms yesterday, but surely it would not have tainted this morning.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open.

“Good morning,” Hermione said as brightly as she could.

Mrs Weasley gasped, dropping her skillet onto the counter with a ‘clang’ and running the short distance to the door. She pulled the girl into a bone-crushing hug as if Hermione had been gone for months instead of mere hours. “Oh, Hermione, dear, I was so worried when you never came home.”

“Sorry, I needed some time to think,” she replied into the woman’s shoulder. “Didn’t Remus tell you where I was?”

“Of course he did, dear. Said you needed to be alone to consider things. You do have a lot to consider,” Molly agreed sympathetically. Even after an afternoon and evening of nothing, that compassionate look and tone of understanding still annoyed the girl, but Mrs Weasley moved on before it had time to ruin Hermione’s whole morning.

“Would you like something to eat?”

“Do I have time for a shower?” Hermione asked. She had slept in her clothes and was looking far worse for it. The night spent crying did nothing to help her appearance either.

“Of course, dear,” Molly smiled. “Go on. I’ll have something ready for you when you come down.”

She nodded and went up to the room she shared with Ginny. The younger girl was snoring quietly on atop a stack of new glossy bridal magazines on Hermione’s bed. Seeing her friend, Hermione was very glad to have escaped to Grimmauld Place. Even with the stress of Sirius’s mood shift, the night had been more pleasant than if she had been forced to listen to Ginny debate precisely what dress Hermione ought to choose. The girl was more interested in the wedding than Hermione was.

Hermione took a long, hot shower, dressed in one of the outfits she knew her mother loved and finished eating breakfast before anyone but Mrs Weasley knew she had returned from Sirius’s house.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Weasley,” Hermione said as she extricated herself from the woman’s arms. “Sirius and I are visiting my parents today. I really have to get back.”

“Oh, do come back tonight,” the woman insisted. “I hate to think about you alone in that house.”

The girl stopped as she pulled on her jacket, looking back at the woman in shocked disbelief. “I’m not alone. I’m with Sirius.”

Where was her concern for him? He was all alone every night save the rare occasion when Harry was allowed to visit or Remus thought he needed company. For all her motherly concern, Molly could be quite cold.

“Yes, but you aren’t married yet,” Mrs Weasley said. “It’s unseemly.”

Hermione could only roll her eyes and step through the Floo Network.

For the second time in one morning, the girl was forced to pause with uncertainty when faced with a kitchen door. Standing alone in the dark kitchen of Grimmauld Place, Hermione was surprised to find herself shaking slightly with nerves. She was terrified of what she might find on the other side. Would Sirius be as calm and pleasant as he had been the previous afternoon? Or would he be the raging, bitter man who had stormed out after dinner? It was difficult to say with Sirius.

She took one more minute to steel her nerves for whatever lay beyond the door.

“Okay, Hermione,” she said. “You can do this.”

Her face a pleasant mask, she put her weight on the door and promptly fell over. She stumbled face first into the hall as the door was yanked open from the other side. Thankfully, her fall was stopped by the chest and arms of the man opening it.

“Hermione,” Remus greeted, shocked to have the girl’s face buried in his jumper. “Sirius said you had gone. What are you doing here?”

“Falling,” she said, her composure severely diminished.

“Sorry,” the man apologised and helped set her on her feet, taking a moment to study her. Hermione could see that he was fighting to keep that damned compassion off his face as he looked at her. “How are things?”

Hermione was unsure how to respond. She was terrified of telling her parents, dreading the mood Sirius was in, murderous from all the sympathy she was receiving and tired of listening to Ginny. Honestly, she just wanted the wedding to be over and done with so that she could get on with her life without fear of Death Eaters popping up and trying to marry and then murder her.

“They are what they are,” she replied with a sad shrug. “How is Sirius?”

“He’s been better,” Remus admitted.

“Is it Kreacher?”

Remus’s mouth pulled down into a deep frown as he studied her again. “No,” said the man slowly, as if he wasn’t sure whether he ought to say more. “But I think the painting is helping his mood quite a bit this morning.”

“The painting?” repeated the girl.

“Your paint thinner idea,” he reminded her.

“Moony?” Sirius called. “Who are you talking to?”

“Your fiancée,” Remus shouted back. Hermione blinked back her surprise at how easily the word rolled off Remus’s tongue, as if it were the most natural thing in the world that Hermione and Sirius were engaged.

Sirius stepped into the hall, arms folded casually and expression mild. “Welcome back,” he smiled tightly. “Just in time for my ‘catharsis’.”

He unfolded his arms, showing the delicate paintbrush in his hand. It was the thin, fine bristled kind that ought to be used for applying final details not slathering on solvents.

“Is that the right sort of brush?” she questioned.

“It is for me,” he said, turning to the raging portrait of his mother with a wicked smile on his face.

The woman’s mouth was moving nonstop as she spewed her curses down on them. A silencing spell kept them from having to listen to her bigoted ranting, but it still chilled Hermione when the cold grey eyes fell on her. They looked so like Sirius’s when his mood turned.

“Keep him from going overboard, would you?” Remus requested.

“I can try,” she said, offering up no promises and watching him disappear into the kitchen.

Sirius had conjured a ladder by the time she turned around. He stood on the rungs, eyeing the painting critically. “Where do you think first?” he questioned, though Hermione doubted he was speaking to her. “The mouth would shut her up quicker… What do you think, Mother?”

“WORTHLESS CHILD!” the woman’s voice rang out as soon as Sirius waved his wand to remove the spell.

“Yes, yes,” replied the man in a bored voice. “Is that really the last thing you want to say to me?”

“DISAPPOINTMENT!” she shouted. “WASTE OF SKIN AND SPACE! YOUR BROTHER HONOURED HIS NOBLE HERITAGE!”

“If you say so,” he said and dipped the brush into the paint thinner, drawing a narrow line at the top of the canvas.

“NO!” the woman shrieked.

Hermione watched, fascinated as Sirius methodically painted the canvas with the chemical, running the bristles slowly from the frame in. He was caging her in, removing the paint from around her slowly and working his way closer and closer to her body. This really was catharsis for him, tormenting the representation of his mother, the woman who had tortured him, revenging himself on her in the only way he had left.

Hermione and Remus sat on conjured chairs, sipping tea and watching the demented show like it was some strange Avant-garde art performance. It took an hour before his brushstrokes came even close to Walburga Black’s face, by that time Sirius’s eyes were glowing brilliantly with his revenge and her shouts had no more effect on them.

“Goodbye, Mother,” Sirius said dully, painting over her nose then her mouth and finally her eyes.

He dropped the empty can of solvent down with the two others he had used to destroy the portrait and climbed down the ladder, brushing his hands off on his dirty robes and looking at his handiwork while his mother shouted her last. The thin brush had done the trick, allowing him time to watch the paint bubble up as he worked. He watched now as her mouth melted away and her eyes widened in fear and rage before they joined the rest of her portrait in blistering off the canvas.

“Feel better?” Remus ventured to ask.

Sirius kept his eyes on the portrait as the last of the paint fell away leaving only an empty, white canvas inside the ornate frame. It took some time for him to speak, but when he did his voice was quiet. “Not really, no.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say, but felt that she ought to say something. Time ticked past as she struggled to think of words that might help or at the very least not anger him. She looked to Remus but the man just shook his head indicating that it would be better to say nothing.

“Still,” Sirius declared loudly after a few minutes, “at least we can talk at a normal volume again.”

“There is that,” she agreed uncertainly.

“So now that my mother is out of the way,” he smirked, still watching the empty canvas, “when would you like to go deal with yours?”

“Dinner,” she said with conviction. “My parents only drink in the evening, and we are all going to need something to get through this announcement.”

Remus chuckled, “Very practical.”

“Quite,” Sirius agreed. It did not escape the girl’s notice that Sirius avoided looking at her even when he was speaking to or about her.

“You’ll need to change,” Remus informed his friend. “You look like a mad Bohemian artist. And not in a good way.”

“Git,” Sirius smirked and left them to go change.

“I have to go take care of, um, some _things_ for Dumbledore,” Remus said vaguely, looking away as he spoke. “I’ll be back later if you or Sirius need me.”

“Professor,” Hermione chided, “I hope you aren’t suggesting our evening will not go well.”

“Far from it,” he smiled and patted her on the shoulder as he left.

Hermione sighed and stared at the mess Sirius had made in his fervour to finally remove his mother from his life.  For all his methodical and patient application of solvent, he had not thought far enough in advance to protect the floors from the falling globs of melting paint. Somehow, she pictured that as being his style in all matters, thinking only as far as the end he wanted and never after – momentary joy at tormenting childhood rival but failing to realise the prank might kill said rival, revenging himself on former friend but not realising that keeping him alive would clear his name, agreeing to a marriage when he clearly hated his fiancée. Yes, that was Sirius.

“Moony!” the man shouted from upstairs. “I need your help up here!”

Hermione trudged up the stairs. “Remus left,” she called from the landing.

“Dammit,” he cursed.

“What’s the matter?”

There was a moment of silence and she assumed he would rather not speak to her. She turned and began descending the stairs, but he finally replied. His embarrassment was evident even through the closed door, “I don’t know what to wear.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’ve never had to meet anyone’s parents before,” he replied defensively.

A small frown pulled at her mouth at the thought that Sirius had made it to thirty-six years old without ever having a girlfriend long or serious enough to warrant meeting the girl’s parents. What sort of man was she marrying?

‘Now is not the time to start worrying about that,’ Hermione told herself and focused on the problem at hand. Clothes. What sort would frighten her parents?

“No robes,” she said flatly. “My parents are very accepting, but it would be better if they saw you looking as Muggle as possible.”

She pressed her ear to his door and listened as he tore through his wardrobe for something even vaguely Muggle to wear. Compared to other wizards, Sirius tended to dress rather like a Muggle; his choice of attire was often eccentric, but it would not earn him as many strange looks as Albus Dumbledore’s would. Actually, she liked Sirius’s waistcoats even when they did clash horribly with whatever shirt he chose to wear beneath them.

“Do Muggles still wear buttoned shirts?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said with a small laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” she bit her lip. “This might work a bit better if I could just come in.”

She expected another long silence or for him to inform her haughtily that he did not need her help tying his laces. The amount of attention he had been paying her so far certainly didn’t speak to any real trust or value of her opinions; he had called for Remus, not Hermione.

Neither silence nor rejection met her ears, instead the door flew open. Sirius stood on the other side, wrapped in a dressing gown. “As you wish,” he said and allowed her entrance.

“Thank you,” replied the girl uncertainly.

“Trousers,” Sirius said as soon as he closed the door behind her.

“Yes, I think you will definitely want to wear some of those.”

“Funny,” he replied baldly. “Which ones.”

Hermione followed the man’s gesture and saw dozens of pairs of trousers hanging in the air, held there by magic. She was amazed he had so many and in such a wide variety. Most had to have come from Diagon Alley as only a wizard or witch could have thought that trousers would look good in such colours, but others would have looked perfectly at home in any department store in England. She took out her wand and started paring down the selection.

“No,” she said, waving her wand and sending the rejected pair to the floor. “No; no; maybe; awful colour; very possible; definitely an option; never in a million years; no; no; maybe if you were going to a club but not for parents; ooh, those are nice; no; maybe; no; no; oh god, no...” It took less than two minutes for her to reduce the choices.

“Just five pairs?” Sirius balked as he collected the few options she had left him.

“Make it four,” she said and pulled away another pair of trousers.

“Now what is wrong with those?” he demanded.

“They look too expensive,” she said, silencing his reply with a hard look. “Sirius Black, you are intimidating enough without your clothes shouting how much money you have in the bank. My parents aren’t rich and you’ll frighten them if you show up in a pair of trousers that cost more than their house.”

He smirked. “Intimidating?”

“Oh, shut up and put some pants on,” she ordered, turning her back to let him change. “Go for khaki,” she advised. “My dad wears khaki trousers and thinks very highly of anyone else who does, too.”

“You realise that you’ve only left me one option, then?”

“Well, that makes your choice easy, doesn’t it?” she replied with a triumphant smile. “Are you done yet?”

“Yes,” he said. “Shirt – yes, I know I’ll need one.”

“You learn very quickly,” she replied, turning to see him eyeing his choice of shirts. Her jaw dropped when she saw his naked torso. She was impressed that he had managed to rebuild his physique so quickly after his incarceration, but the size and density of his muscles was not what had her mouth hanging open. It was the black ink that littered his skin. “Oh god, tattoos.”

Sirius looked down at his chest, “They’ll be covered.”

“I know, but they’ll still be there. Mum will know.”

His raised an eyebrow. “How could she possibly know that?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione hissed. “She just _will_! She’ll know and she’ll hate you for them. Why did you have to go and have tattoos?”

“Well, I’m sorry, pet, but I hadn’t really considered meeting my uptight fiancée’s Muggle mother at the time,” he replied. “In my defence, this was a good two years before you were even born, so I think I’m allowed my lack of foresight.”

Hermione elected to ignore his sarcasm. “Blue.”

“What?”

“The blue shirt,” she tore it from the pile of shirts on his bed. “It’ll bring out your eyes. Maybe if we’re very lucky, Mum will be too distracted by your face to care about any tattoos or the age gap. She goes all giggly for the butcher’s son, so there’s hope she’ll be smitten with you, too.”

“You calling me pretty?” he grinned.

“Shut up and get dressed,” she snapped.

 


	4. Parks & Purchases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author shows off that she once went to Oxford. (Ooooh, I'm so fancy!)

The age difference was bad enough, but the tattoos… why did he have to have tattoos?

Hermione paced the length of the entrance hall, worrying her fingernails and lower lip. At least she no longer had to worry about Mrs Black shouting at her. The fact that she would soon be the new Mrs Black did not escape her fretting mind. She just had more pressing concerns – like those damned tattoos.

“Ready?” Sirius questioned.

She turned and studied him. Blue oxford dress shirt, khaki trousers, brown shoes polished just enough to show he tried but not so much to be pretentious or overpowering. His clothes looked as normal as anyone she might approach on the street, which drew all her attention to his face. That’s what she had wanted… except that now she worried his hair might be off-putting to her parents. Sadly, she suspected that he would hex her if she suggested giving him a haircut, so that would have to be the sole obvious oddity about him.

 “You Muggle-up good,” she commented. “No one would ever suspect you’re a wizard.”

“I used to spend quite a bit of time in Muggle London,” he said, opening the door for her. “It was the only place I could be sure my mother wouldn’t find me. Rather like you in the Wizarding world.”

Her eyes narrowed automatically, glaring her annoyance at him. “I told you. My parents are wonderful.”

“Well, I’m going to find out tonight, aren’t I?” he grinned.

Hermione’s brain filled with images of Sirius in her parents’ sitting-room, glass of brandy in hand as he espoused the brilliance of Hippogriff travel over the Floo Network and shared tales of debauchery from his youth. She groaned, “You are going to behave, aren’t you?”

“I always behave,” Sirius insisted. His face would have looked perfectly believable if it weren’t for the glint in his eye, which clearly spoke to his desire to make her parents squirm and Hermione scream.

She sighed, “Fine, let’s go.”           

She took his arm and closed her eyes as he Apparated them both to a quiet walking path in Oxford. It took her a moment to realise where she was, but the packed dirt underfoot and narrow river with a scattering of punts gave her all the information she needed. University Parks. City centre was just a short walk from here as was her home.

“Blackwell’s isn’t far. This way,” she said, dropping his arm and starting down the path.

He reached out and took hold of her hand, placing it into the crook of his arm. The question must have been written on her face because he smiled rather condescendingly. “Since you’re set on keeping up the front that we’re getting married out of love, you’d best get used to showing it,” he informed her with a pat on her hand. “Wouldn’t do to go through the whole damned wedding only to get sick at the idea of kissing me, now would it?”

His words were playful as was the look on his face, but she swore there was something in his eyes, some intangible sadness that had no place there and made no sense. Why would he be hurt? She hadn’t done anything to cause him pain. It was he who refused to look at her most of the morning, not the other way around.

“Right,” she said with only a hint of the confusion she felt seeping into her voice.

“So,” he said some time later, “how did we meet? I’m assuming you want to avoid mentioning my time in Azkaban, which leaves the truth out.”

Hermione considered what to tell her parents. The truth was a little discouraging. She was marrying an escaped, falsely-accused mass murderer. Even though he had been framed, Sirius had still run off with the intent to kill someone. She doubted her parents would look too kindly on that fact, and it still required explaining Voldemort attacking Harry. No, that was definitely not an option.

“I suppose,” she said slowly, “that some portion of the truth is fine. They know about Harry, so I guess we met when you came to visit him at school.”

“Very good spin of the truth,” he nodded his approval. “Was it love at first sight?”

“No,” she snorted. “That’s nonsense. Besides, you were quite frightening when I first met you, not to mention that I was fourteen.”

“And you’re sixteen now, what’s the difference?”

She frowned. “Quite a large one.” He just smirked, irritating her senseless. “You’re the one who wants to avoid looking like a dirty old man.”

His laugh was painful to hear, derisive, and she knew the hatred she heard was directed at himself. “I really don’t think that’s possible in this situation,” replied Sirius. “But I’m used to people thinking the worst of me.”

He looked down at her, that same strange pain in his eyes. It was different from the hollow look he often got late in the evening when thoughts of Azkaban crept from the shadows and haunted him. Those were the nights everyone stayed long into the night and he drowned himself in whiskey hoping to destroy enough brain cells to make the memories pass. She wasn’t sure what this pain was, she just knew it was different.

“I don’t think badly of you,” she insisted. “Neither does Harry or Remus or anyone else who matters.”

He laughed again and his face took on a complex series of emotions that she barely had time to register let alone understand. The thought flashed through her brain that she had the rest of their lives to sort out what exactly was bothering him, provided they managed not to kill one another first.

“I thought you said it wasn’t far,” he said after a few more minutes of walking. “We’ve been going for ages.”

“It isn’t,” she said. “The gate is just ahead and then it’s only half a mile or so to city centre.”

“Half a mile?” he parroted in disbelief. “What is wrong with you people? I thought you had public transport for this sort of thing.”

She sighed. “How did you get such large muscles if you’re so lazy?”

His bicep flexed beneath her fingers. She suspected he did it on purpose, but his face didn’t show him looking at all proud of himself. “That is different,” he insisted. “That is effort with a purpose. This is just tedium.”

“It’s exercise and a nature walk,” she sniffed, annoyed that he was making fun of one of her favourite places in Oxford.

“It’s boring and far too long. If I’d known it would be so far, I would have bought a damned motorcycle.” His eyes lit up at the thought then dulled immediately. “Are you going to be one of _those_ wives?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know.” He nudged her in the ribs and let his voice grow nasal and mocking as he spoke like _that_ kind of wife, “You’re not getting on one of those death traps.”

She snorted despite the fact that that was precisely her opinion on motorbikes. “I don’t particularly like them,” she said and watched his face fall. “However, you’re coming to my rescue, so I wouldn’t dream of denying you what you love most.”

He grinned, “So I can get a bike?” She nodded. “And keep drinking?” She frowned but nodded. “And smoke on the balcony?” Again she nodded. “And have sex every night with whomever I like?”

“What?”

“Kidding,” he smirked. “Wizard marriages come with fidelity charms. Sex with anyone other than the person I married would cause unbearable physical pain and, given the current state of the Ministry, probably incarceration. Much as I love a roll in the sack, I’m not going back to Azkaban for it.”

Hermione could only blink and try to push her blush down.

There it was. Sex. She really didn’t know if it was expected of her. After Ginny first brought the idea up, she scoured the new law word-for-word, searching for any hidden innuendo or loop holes that might imply the married couples were required to fornicate. She had found nothing; the law did not demand it of them, but they would be husband and wife. Married people had sex – unmarried people, too, but that was not her concern right now. Sirius had never mentioned it, but there was a chance he might expect it as a given of married life or as compensation for saving her.

Awkward and nervous as it made her, she was desperate to speak to him about it. “Um…” she began, but he spoke over her.

“Finally, the gate!” he cried and started walking quicker. “I didn’t think this bloody wilderness would ever end.”

She glanced around at the manicured grass and benches beneath well-maintained trees. “Wilderness?”

“Which way?” he demanded, eyeing the pavement in either direction eagerly.

“Left,” she said and was tugged that way almost immediately as her fiancé all but ran down the street, past museums, the red brick college and heavy stone walls. Hermione was curious what had him so excited, the new city, freedom or whatever it was he intended to purchase. “Turn right up ahead,” she told him.

He turned the corner and continued on at a more reasonable pace now that he could see shops.

“I was expecting more people,” he said as a woman in a colourful dress walked past, her camera held high as she took photographs of everything that sat still long enough.

“The colleges are out for summer,” Hermione told him. “All the students are back home, so all that’s left are locals and tourists.”

He nodded and watched the Muggles walk around aimlessly, a smile touching his lips. “I like summer here.”

She chose not to reply and let him enjoy his moment of peace, which lasted until she tugged him to a stop before the matte black storefront of her favourite bookshop.

“We’re here,” she said.

“I thought it would be bigger,” he commented as he peered in the windows. Shrugging, he walked into the shop, Hermione still attached to his arm.

“What are you looking for?” she asked as he frowned and hummed his way through several sections without finding anything worth picking up.

“Never you mind,” he chided. “You go look on your own. I don’t want you ruining the surprise.”

“I could help you find whatever it is you’re looking for,” she said.

“Get!” he shooed her away. “I’ve managed on my own for how many years before you came along?”

“Yes, you did a great job without anyone’s help,” she commented and walked away.

Hermione ducked behind a table of books, watching Sirius as he walked through the store, picking things up at random and putting them back down. She felt like she was back at Hogwarts trailing a professor Harry suspected of being in league with Voldemort.

Sirius was talking to a salesgirl, a pretty young woman in her early twenties, blond and smiling. The woman touched his arm as she leaned in and pointed to the back of the store. He winked and grinned in response to whatever she had said, but left the blond standing alone. Hermione followed as stealthily as she could, but saw him walk up the stairs. It would be impossible to follow him without being seen and she didn’t know which floor he was going to. Blackwell’s was deceptively small-looking from the outside. When she was younger, Hermione thought it was magic that the shop was so deep and tall when from the street it looked like just a cramped, one-story shop with flats on top. Normally, she loved that quirk of the store, but right now it was proving most irritating.

She frowned, hating that Sirius was up to something and she could not find out what.

With a huff, she began shopping, finding several books that she would have happily purchased if she had the money. She had been there close to an hour without seeing Sirius again and was beginning to worry that he had gotten lost or bored.

“May I help you?” the blond woman asked.

“Not unless you can tell me what that man was looking for,” Hermione muttered.

The woman smiled. “The handsome bloke with the long hair? He said you might ask and that if you did I should tell you to stop trying to ruin all his fun.”

“Git,” Hermione grumbled and folded her arms. “Where is he?”

 “Well, we didn’t have everything he wanted, so he went down to Waterstones,” the young woman informed her, checking her watch. “Said you could meet him there for coffee at noon, which gives you twenty minutes.”

“What do you mean ‘everything he wanted’? How many books was he after?”

“Several,” the woman’s smile turned knowing as she winked. “I think you’ll enjoy his selection.”

“Oh, god, not the bodice-rippers again,” Hermione groaned. “I never should have brought them up.”

“No,” she giggled. “Although he did ask if there was any place to buy a bodice in town.” After a brief laugh over Hermione’s obvious embarrassment, the woman schooled her face into professionalism and said, “Be sure to remember your purchases at the till when you leave.”

“I haven’t bought anything,” Hermione frowned her confusion.

The woman just smiled. “This way.”

Hermione followed the woman to the front of the store and balked at the stack of books waiting for her. Every book that she had picked up and eyed with want was waiting for her. “How did you know?”

“It’s my job,” the woman smiled and rang up the order, taking a thick fold of notes from a black bag and depositing it in the till. She placed the change back in the bag and handed it across to Hermione, who quickly studied it and recognised it as a currency exchange bag from Gringotts bank. Sirius must have left money for her.

The blond slid the weighty bag of books across the worn counter. “Have a nice day, and congratulations on your engagement.”

“Thank you,” Hermione replied dully. “Um… does the word ‘Muggle’ mean anything to you?”

The woman blinked once, twice, three times as she considered the word. “No, should it?”

“Just curious if there was a reason why you were so good at your job,” Hermione commented and left before the woman could ask her what the word meant.


	5. Unfamiliar Ground

Despite being accustomed to walking down long corridors and up several flights of stairs while carrying a small library on her shoulder, Hermione took an exceptionally long time walking the short distance down Broad Street and up to the coffee shop on the second floor of the other bookshop.  She walked almost leisurely through the store, pausing to examine titles which she had no intention of buying. This was no casual stroll; it was all a way to delay having to face Sirius. His gift of books minutes before had her feeling the inequity of this relationship even more than she already was.

“You are late,” Sirius informed her without looking up from his book. His announcement drew the attention of the few customers that were sitting nearby. Hermione ducked her head and hurried to sit before he could start shouting his conversation for the entire store to hear.

“I see you found some titles worth purchasing,” he commented.

“Thank you,” Hermione said. “You really didn’t have to.”

“Engagement present,” he replied absently with a slight shrug, as if laying out over a hundred pounds for a present was an everyday occurrence.

She frowned and set the heavy bag down on the floor. “I thought you already got the most ostentatious ring you could find.”

“I did,” he agreed with a winning smile. “That, however, was a gift for ridding me of my mother.”

“I do wish you wouldn’t spend so much on me,” she shifted uncomfortably in her chair, avoiding his gaze. “You’re already saving my life by marrying me. I can’t ever repay that.”

Sirius leaned back in his chair and watched her for a long minute, pulling at his coffee before finally speaking. “You seem to be forgetting who saved me from Dementors and Azkaban,” he said. “If you’re keeping score, I believe this marriage would make us even.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, looking at his open and earnest face. She had not forgotten about that night in her third year, but she had never considered it a debt to be repaid. Saving Sirius had simply been the right thing to do. Was that why he had agreed to the marriage? Binding himself to her with what was essentially an Unbreakable Vow hardly seemed the most sensible way to go about freeing himself from that debt, if that was, in fact, what he was doing.

“Still—” she began.

“No.”

“No?”

“No ‘still’. No ‘but’. No any other objections you might try to make,” he said, leaving no room for argument. “You got landed with me, and I will fulfil my duty and try to make your life as bearable as possible. Since all I have to offer is my money, I am going to buy you what you like. Sadly, at the moment, all I know about you is that you like books.”

Hermione bit down on her lower lip as the familiar tingle of threatening tears came to her eyes. “What about you?”

“What about me?” he breathed a scathing laugh. “I haven’t been doing anything with my life anyway. Even since my name has been cleared, I’m barely useful to anyone. I can at least be useful now.” He looked hard into her eyes, forbidding any attempt she might make to argue.

“So,” he said in a considerably lighter tone, “I am going to buy whatever I like for whomever I like whenever I like. This will include you whether you like it or not.”

“Okay,” Hermione said.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” she repeated.

“That wasn’t nearly as difficult as I expected,” he grinned.

Hermione blinked back her tears of sympathy and her befuddlement. His mood swings were extremely disorienting, and his opinions were very difficult to dispute. She was beginning to suspect that regardless of the argument Sirius would inevitably win even if she knew she was right.

A coffee was set in front of her despite the fact that she had not ordered anything, and she drank it without question as she considered her situation. This was all becoming increasingly more complicated than she had intended. She had thought this was going to be a simple marriage of convenience, where they had the ceremony to fool the Ministry and her parents, then she would go about her business and he his. When had Sirius become determined to be a good and useful husband?

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

She nodded silently, taking a sip of the coffee only to find the cup was empty.

“When do your parents eat dinner?”

“Around six usually,” she said. That meant they would need to kill over five hours. She groaned inwardly at the thought of what they would do for so many hours, but Sirius seemed to have the opposite reaction.

He smiled as he stood. “Plenty of time to grab lunch and for you to show me round,” he declared as he took her bag from the floor. “I saw some buildings that look freakishly like Hogwarts. I have to poke around.”

“Touring that many colleges might get expensive,” she warned.

“One: I’m rich,” he informed her smugly. “And two: Who said anything about paying for a guided tour?” He grinned devilishly and led the way from the shop.

Hermione tried to persuade him to pay for a proper tour, terrified of what might happen if they were caught on grounds without proof that they belonged, but Sirius refused. The man much preferred his own method of touring, which involved opening every door, regardless of whether it was locked or not, and poking his fingers into all manner of old and important-looking artefacts.

“You’ll have the Aurors on us in five minutes,” she insisted. “I’ll end up marrying Fred just because you’re stuck in Azkaban again.”

That thought quelled his enthusiasm a bit. He stopped using his wand to unlock doors and settled for entering only the doors that were already accessible, which still left them touring much farther into the massive stone colleges than any guide would have lead them. For all the school trips and family outings she had spent exploring these colleges, she had never seen half as many rooms, books, paintings and statues as she did that afternoon with Sirius. She had to admit that it was more fun and exciting his way and far more extensive. Though, she would never dare say it aloud for fear of encouraging her fiancé.

“I think we’ll call this the last one,” Sirius said as he put his hand onto the tarnished brass handle of a door deep inside All Souls College.

“You there!” someone shouted at them from down the corridor. “Hold it right there!”

Hermione froze.

The corridor looked enough like Hogwarts to make her feel as if she were back at school caught red-handed by Filch. Sirius might have felt the same, but his response was not to roll over to the old caretaker’s authority but to run like hell. He gripped her hand and sprinted down the corridor, ducking around a bend and into the first doorway he could find, closing the door firmly behind them. They stood in the dark broom cupboard, trying to keep from breathing too loudly while they listened for the old porter running past. Hermione gripped his arm, feeling the tense muscles beneath her fingers. She sucked in a sharp breath as she heard the slap of tired, flat feet on the stone floor of the corridor. She was seconds away from panicking, but Sirius pulled her toward him protectively; it calmed her just enough that when the doorknob rattled she managed to keep from making any noise to give them away.  

“Damn kids,” the porter spat and kept walking.

Sirius laughed into her hair and hugged her close. “Hold on,” he warned and Disapparated them to a dark corner near the entrance.  Smiling as if he had not just snuck through half the college’s out-of-bounds corridors and lecture rooms, he strolled out the main gate and onto the street. 

“Would you believe that I miss Filch?” he sighed and shook his head.

“No,” Hermione said. “I wouldn’t.”

He just smiled wider, no doubt reliving all the times he and his friends had managed to escape detention while in school. She directed him down the pavement away from city centre and ever closer to her parents’ home.

“I really don’t want to have this conversation,” Hermione moaned and tried to turn around as she faced the imposing Victorian structure. The windows were shining brightly in the dimming evening light, telling her that her parents were in for  the night.

Sirius forced her around and farther up the gravel drive, “Now or later, it’s got to be done.”

“Later,” Hermione decided and tried to turn again.

“Now,” Sirius said and pointed her forward. “I’ll carry you if I have to. You’ve seen my muscles. You know I can.”

“Stop showing off about your – Oh, god, the tattoos! I forgot!” she groaned. “Are they covered?” She stared hard at the fabric of his shirt, making sure it was completely opaque, pulled at his collar to see if any ink peeked up that far, rolled down his sleeves and fastened the buttons. She starting smoothing out the wrinkles and pulling imaginary bits of dust off his shoulders just to prolong the moment when she would have to knock on the door.

Sirius swatted away her hands. “Dammit, girl, there is nothing wrong with my shirt!”

“Hermione?”

The girl spun around at the voice, “Mum!”

“I thought that was you! What are you doing back?” the woman hurried to greet her daughter. “We’ve missed you. Come in. Come in. And your friend.” She waved Sirius through the door, her arm never releasing its grip on Hermione.

“Mum, this is Sirius,” the girl said.

“Please, call me Martha,” the woman smiled, her deep brown eyes sparkling as she looked Sirius over top to bottom. A girlish blush touched her cheeks as she called her husband in. “Phillip, Hermione’s come back for a visit and brought a friend.”

The man gripped Sirius’s hand tightly and greeted him warmly, if simply. “Phillip,” he said.

“Are you one of Hermione’s professors?” Martha asked, her voice filled with her interest and a slight giggle. “She speaks very highly of everyone on staff.”

“No,” Sirius said as he was guided wordlessly through the foyer and into the house. “But I know a number of them. One of my mates was a professor there for a time.”

Conversation moved into the kitchen, where dinner was served without either of them being asked if they wanted it. Hermione would have loved to send Sirius a smug I-told-you-they-were-wonderful smirk, but she was too nervous.

“Which one might that have been?” Phillip asked.

“Lupin,” Sirius said. “Remus Lupin. He taught Defence Against the Dark Arts two or three years back.”

“Oh, I remember him,” Martha cooed. “We met at King’s Cross at the end of last year. Very nice man… handsome, too.”

“Mum!” Hermione choked on her drink and flushed violently to hear her speak of a professor that way. She wondered if her mother would have been so complimentary toward the man if it had been him chosen to be her husband; somehow she doubted it.

“Well, it’s true, dear,” her mother said.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Sirius grinned. “My cousin’s had her sights set on him for a few months now.”

Hermione blinked and stared at him. “Tonks? Really? They’re nothing alike.”

“It’s amazing how well that can work out sometimes,” he shrugged. “He’s trying not to fall her, though. Thinks he’s too old for her – She’s thirteen years his junior.”

The girl’s eyes darted between her parents’ faces, studying every nuance for sign of disapproval. Their reaction was critical. Martha frowned slightly but Hermione could tell that she was thinking that a handsome man deserved someone to love. Phillip just nodded with no pause or distaste visible on his face.

“Well, I hope he stops being stubborn,” Phillip laughed and raised his glass in a silent toast to Remus Lupin and his love.

“Agreed,” Sirius grinned.

“So, if you aren’t a professor,” Martha asked. “Who are you? How do you know Hermione?”

Sirius looked briefly to the girl before speaking. “I’m Godfather to a friend of hers – Harry Potter.”

“Oh, I do like that boy,” the woman smiled. “Such a shame about his parents.”

He nodded sadly, “They were good people.”

“As I understood it,” Mr Granger spoke slowly and looked from his daughter to her friend, “Harry’s been living with some nasty relatives. Why hasn’t he been living with you?”

Hermione could have kicked herself; she hadn’t thought of that. After all the things she had told her parents about her friends, she should have known they would start asking questions about Harry and Sirius.

Considering the scrutiny he was currently under, Sirius did not seem in the least bit concerned. If she did not know the truth, she would never have known the man was lying through that sad smile. “I was away for quite some time,” he said vaguely. “I knew what had happened, and tried to take him. But family won out. I never thought his aunt and uncle would treat him so poorly.”

“But he’s in your care now?” Martha asked, her hopeful smile undeniable evidence that his pretty face was having considerable sway on her opinion of him. Clearly no one so handsome could ever do anything so callous as leave a boy like Harry with horrid relatives, at least not in Martha’s book.

“Yes and no,” Sirius said. “He is officially my charge, but he isn’t living with me. My house is barely fit for company after being vacant for so long. He’s been staying at the Weasley’s house like Hermione.”

“But surely you can fix it up again instantly with magic,” she insisted, leaning in and touching his arm lightly in the same way she did the butcher’s son when he was explaining the best cuts of meat for a particular meal.

He just smiled. “Even with magic, pests are hard to remove.”

“So you’re the Godfather of our girl’s best friend,” Phillip recapped after a pause and a drink. “I don’t quite see how that connection would have you over here for dinner. Not complaining, mind you, just observing.”

Hermione blanched. She had not anticipated the question coming up so soon.

That wasn’t true. She had expected it to be the first one from her mother’s mouth, but when it had not come she had given way to the hope that they might make it through pudding before she had to tell them.

“Hermione?” her mother asked. “Is something wrong?”

The girl cleared her throat as delicately as she could, trying to give herself the time to find some way to tell them that would make her parents happy. “Well,” she said. “I… Um… Sirius and I… we… uh… he… ”

“Oh, god, you’re pregnant!” Martha cried and knocked her chair to the floor in her eagerness to distance herself from Sirius.

“No!” Hermione shouted, scandalised by the suggestion. “I most certainly am not! We’ve only just gotten engaged! You know I would never!”

Following the loud and horrified accusation of pregnancy, the truth sounded rather dull. A silence followed during which everyone stared and blinked and tried to sort out whether the news was better or worse than the idea of Hermione having an illegitimate baby at sixteen.

“Engaged?” Martha repeated. “You’re engaged?”

“Yes, mum,” Hermione replied.

“Engaged… to _him_?”

“Yes, mum.”

“Engaged to your best friend’s Godfather.”

“Yes, mum.”

Martha released a shacking breath, adjusted her posture and walked with as much dignity as she could from the kitchen. A moment later, the woman started screaming from a room upstairs. A series of crashes began as she vented her disapproval on the nearest inanimate objects she could get her hands on.

“Don’t know what she’s breaking, but I’m sure we didn’t need it anyway,” Phillip muttered. “More brandy?” He poured the alcohol into their glasses without waiting for a reply.

“Aren’t you going to start shouting?” Hermione questioned nervously.

Her father shook his head. “Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t. You’re a bright girl, Hermione,” he smiled. “I know you wouldn’t give your heart away to just anyone.”

Hermione did her best not to look awkward.

“Besides, you act older than I do half the time,” he laughed. “I never thought you’d fall for someone your own age. And I couldn’t yell at you for something I’ve done myself, now could I? Your mother’s nine years younger than me. Hell, her mother was fifteen years older than her husband.”

“Runs in the family, then?” Sirius said, not daring to smirk or raise an eyebrow.

“Yes, it does. What about your family?” he asked, his expression sobering and his voice heavier than it had been since their arrival. “What do they think about your child-bride?”

“Most of the ancient house of Black,” he sneered, “won’t be too pleased, but I don’t give a damn. The only family I care about love her already,” Sirius said with absolute honesty. He didn’t bother mentioning that Hermione’s age had little to do with his family’s disapproval of her, which was information she was more than happy to have left out.

Mr Granger nodded appreciatively, taking a sip of his brandy. Hermione knew he was waiting but did not know why or for what. She opened her mouth to explain further but her father just shook his head and kept waiting. It took forty-five minutes but his patience paid off when Martha pushed the door open and sat back down at the table.

“I don’t like this one bit, Hermione,” she said with forced calm.

“I know, mum,” the girl replied quietly.

“Will you promise not to hurt her?”

“No,” Sirius said, earning a glare from both mother and daughter. “Only an idiot would make a promise like that. She knows that I’m hardly the easiest person in the world to live with. There are going to be days she’d prefer to run away rather than face my moods. She did just last night.”

“I did not!” Hermione protested.

“You were gone this morning, your bed was made like it hadn’t been slept in, Hermione,” he said, anger colouring his voice. “I know you left rather than face me in the morning.”

“I’m so sorry that I like to keep things tidy,” she spat. “I’m so sorry that all my things are at the Burrow and I didn’t want to visit my parents after I slept in my clothes! I came back after breakfast. You’re the one who avoided looking at me all morning!”

“Because I thought you left me,” Sirius insisted.

“I did,” she said. “But I came back.”

Sirius stared at her a moment, pain and embarrassment flashing across his face. “Next time leave a note,” he requested.

At least she knew the reason for the anger and ache she had seen every time he looked at her that day.

“I will.”

Phillip cleared his throat loudly, drawing their attention back to the fact that they were not alone in the room. “Well, you’ve certainly got the quarrelling down, I’ll give you that,” he said with surprising humour. “Fair warning to you, Sirius, our girl is master of the storm in a teacup. Best keep your nose clean or risk giving her even more to rage about.”

Hermione clicked her tongue in annoyance and turned back to her pudding, long since forgotten and cold.

“Where will it be?” Martha asked, her tone strained but civil. “The wedding, where will it be? It’s just that the back garden is lovely this time of year and if you wanted…”

“Thank you, mum,” Hermione said, tears filling her eyes. “That would be perfect.”

 

 


	6. Powerful Words

Following the near ulcer-inducing stress of informing her parents, very little managed to annoy Hermione for the remainder of the summer. She stayed the rest of the July and August at the Burrow, visiting her parents on occasion. She hated being away from them, but the danger posed to her was too great in the Muggle world. The Order and Dumbledore insisted that she remain protected.

“I would have thought,” she commented around the middle of August, “that The Bloody Law would mean I would be safe to stay with mum and dad.”

They had all taken to calling the new marriage law ‘The Bloody Law’ as it was causing no small amount of grief for many in the Wizarding United Kingdom.

“Just an extra precaution, dear,” Mrs Weasley assured her. “You never know what the Death Eaters might try next. They might even catch wind of our plans.”

“Well, Ginny’s not exactly been subtle about it, has she?” Ron said. He glanced over at his sister. The girl was elbows deep in bridal magazines and fabric swatches. Anyone in a fifty-mile radius was certain to know there was going to be a wedding.

“Let her be,” Hermione chided. “The more she does, the less I have to worry about. You know I’m rubbish with that sort of thing. A single dress I can manage, but a whole wedding… no, thank you.”

Ron snorted.

“What was that for?”

“You are the bossiest person I know,” he laughed. “I don’t care how rubbish you are, come September you’ll be complaining that it all isn’t just how you wanted it.”

“Ronald Weasley, you leave that poor girl alone!” his mother punctuated her order with a sharp slap on his hand with the business end of her knitting needles.

While she hated being made fun of, Hermione was relieved that Ron was treating the wedding as he did any of her other endeavours. He was as snippy and whiney about her marriage as he was about her revision timetables, which was oddly comforting. Now that the initial shock and anger and depression had worn off, they all knew that nothing would change once Hermione Granger became Hermione Black.

So they loaded up Mr Weasley’s Ford Anglia with their school trunks and drove off at far too late an hour of the morning on the first of September. Sirius was waiting at King’s Cross to see Harry off. He nodded a greeting to Hermione, no different than the one he offered Ron. He was clever enough know they should behave as they always did to avoid arousing suspicion in whoever might be observing them. She was thankful her parents had to work, otherwise it would have made their lack of affection extremely difficult to explain.

Sirius focused his attention on his Godson, hugging him close. “Have a good year,” Sirius smiled. “Try to behave yourself for once.”

Harry snorted knowing that Sirius had probably never behaved himself a single day he attended Hogwarts.

“I mean it,” the man warned. “I don’t want to hear that you’ve been exploding toilets or setting dungbombs off in the Divination tower or…” he scratched his chin thoughtfully, “What else did we do sixth year?”

“Charmed all the crystal balls to show old black and white horror films,” Remus said. “Replaced the barrels of the East Wing water fountains with ones full of Veritaserum. Those were two of my better plans.”

Sirius ignored the awed look on Harry’s face and continued with his fatherly warnings. “Yes, none of that tomfoolery. You’re a bright young lad, clever enough to come up with your own pranks. If you can’t think of any, borrow Hermione. I’m sure she’s got a devious streak in her somewhere.” He offered the girl an impish wink, the only outward sign that he thought of her as anything but his Godson’s swotty little friend.

Ron was laughing himself toward hiccups and had to escape to the train before he lost the ability to control his bladder.

“See you in a couple weeks,” Sirius said quietly, a faint smile pulling at his mouth as he waved Hermione and Harry onto the train.

“A couple weeks…” Harry repeated as the train’s wheels screeched and spun and finally found traction on the rails. “It’s come on quick, hasn’t it?”

“It’s not here yet,” Hermione replied in a low voice. “Let’s not talk about that. You don’t know who might be listening.” She nodded her head meaningfully toward the compartment that Malfoy and his friends were occupying. It was not her imagination that their malicious glares had taken on a considerably dirtier undertone.

“What are they leering at?” Harry scowled.

“Me,” she said. “As far as they know I’m fair game to any pureblood wizard who asks.”

“That is just disturbing.”

“Imagine how I feel,” she said, the sarcastic edge of her voice dulled after weeks of getting used to the idea of The Bloody Law and everything that would come with it.

“I’d rather not,” he mumbled and pushed forward through the narrow corridor until he found a compartment. “Neville and Luna are in here.”

“You go, I have to go to the Prefect car,” she said. “Sorry. I’ll come by later.”

She left the boy looking dejected in the entrance to the compartment, and hurried to the front of the train. Ron was already sitting, saving a seat for her and looking slightly glum. Hermione soon discovered why. Among even these clever and responsible students, the marriage law was the only topic worth discussing.

“I heard they’re setting aside private quarters for married couples,” Lucinda James, a Ravenclaw, said conspiratorially and flashing a smile at her boyfriend who looked away quickly, clearly terrified she wanted him to propose.

The new Slytherin Prefect, a girl Hermione had seen in the halls but had never spoken to directly, snorted. “That is complete nonsense,” she said, speaking with authority, though she likely knew no more than anyone else. “They’d never allow students to marry.”

“They’re of age, Hollie,” another fifth year Prefect said, glaring his prejudice at the Slytherin girl. “In school or not, they’re still legally able to marry. Just shut up since it’s nothing to do with you.”

The girl opened her mouth to reply, in typical Slytherin fashion, but Ron broke into the argument. “Legally  _required_  to marry, you mean,” he muttered. “Bloody law.”

Many nodded their agreement. “It is rather a strange law,” Margaret Lucas, Hufflepuff, agreed. “And the timing… so soon after You-Know-Who’s return. I don’t know.” She bit her lip and frowned as she considered it.

“Don’t go spouting rubbish just because you haven’t got any prospects,” the cold drawl of Draco Malfoy cut through their discussion.

“That was uncalled for, Malfoy,” Hermione glared at him.

“Maybe, but it’s still true,” he smirked. “What about you, Granger? Anyone been sniffing around you?”

Hermione fought to keep herself still in her seat, refusing to let him know how uncomfortable he made her. Dealing with Malfoy was like a game of poker – appearances were everything. She kept her face neutral as she looked at him and replied, “I don’t see how it’s any business of yours.”

“So much for your being brightest in our year,” he scoffed but said nothing more.

If only everyone else would have taken him as an example and let the subject drop. It took monumental effort on the Head Boy and Girl’s part to move their meeting to a topic other than marriages. After what felt like an eternity, Hermione and Ron left the compartment for their rounds of the train.

“Is it me,” Ron furrowed his brow as they walked past another compartment filled with chattering students, “or are they all freakishly well-behaved? It’s unnatural.” Hermione nodded, equally as confused as to why they had not yet come across a single dungbomb, Canary Cream victim, fight or even a minor skirmish. Usually they would have found at least three of each by this point in the journey.

The door to a compartment slid open and a third year Slytherin ran into the corridor, shouting over her shoulder. “I’ll go ask Millicent about it. She’ll set you lot right.”

“Is there a problem?” Hermione asked politely. “Can we help?”

The girl sneered up at her, but her face quickly cleared into something almost pretty. “Yeah, is it true married couples will get extra Hogsmeade weekends?”

“How the bloody hell would we know?” Ron demanded. “Stupid Bloody Law. It’s taken over the whole bloody school!”

The girl, too shocked by Ron’s shouting to reply in the appropriate Slytherin manner, scurried back to her compartment and hid. Ron looked as if he was ready to follow her in to continue his tirade, so Hermione grabbed his arm and pulled him away. It only got worse. Every student they encountered had a question about The Bloody Law. Rumours were flying quicker than Snitches and no one knew what to believe. Hermione hoped Dumbledore would speak to them about it at the feast just to set everyone right. The Headmaster always seemed to know what was happening at the school, even when he barely surfaced from his office, so she knew he would be aware of the students’ preoccupation. If he did not tackle it first thing, the students would be asking questions throughout classes, disturbing lessons and annoying every teacher.

A small smirk played on her mouth as she imagined some unsuspecting first year trying to ask Professor Snape about it.

“What’s so funny?” Ron asked.

She shook her head and kept walking.

oOo

“The very best of evenings to you!” Dumbledore said with a broad smile. “To our new students, welcome, to our old students, welcome back!”

The man continued through a similar speech to the previous year’s, kind welcomes from him and warnings from Filch, a new staff member – this drew some murmurs as they learned that Snape would be the new Defence teacher, but the ever-revolving post was hardly pressing – and warnings about Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Just as it seemed he was coming to a close, he cleared his throat and his smile fell away. “You will, I’m sure, have read all about the new law enacted by the Ministry of Magic over the summer,” he said and a ripple of excited chatter ran down the tables. “While it has little bearing inside these walls, there are a number of you whom it will affect. Those of you who are now or will soon turn seventeen have no choice but to marry if petitioned to do so.” He paused to give them time to consider his rather harsh wording of the law. “Consider carefully the decision you have before you. Marriage is a lifelong commitment, protected by oaths and spells that can never be broke, and ought not to be entered into lightly.”

He let them mull over the weight of the responsibility before he continued. “Your Heads of House will be available for further discussion between classes…”

Whatever else he said failed to enter Hermione’s brain. Marriages would be permitted at Hogwarts. She somehow thought Dumbledore might be capable of holding back the Ministry, keeping any students from being forced to marry and that the arrangements she had made with Sirius were simply a precaution. Clearly she had been wrong. Dumbledore couldn’t keep the Ministry out forever. The feast ended and with it any hope Hermione had of getting out of marrying Sirius. She trudged the long route to Gryffindor Tower, performing her duties as Prefect with as much enthusiasm as she could muster before falling into bed.

Breakfast was torture as she had to listen to Lavender and Parvati whine that they would not be old enough to marry for another year. She grit her teeth and hurried to class.

“Snape,” Ron grunted as if it was a swear word, leaning against the wall outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts room.

Hermione was actually curious how Snape’s taciturn style would translate into teaching Defence full-time. His brief stint as a supply teacher while Lupin was ill might not have shown the man in his best light since he was using the position to reveal his rival’s secret.

Snape appeared in the doorway, silencing their chatter with a glare.

“Inside,” he said.

They entered quickly and, after several minutes of preamble during which Snape insulted every previous DADA teacher they ever had, he set them to work practicing nonverbal spells. It was difficult magic under the best of circumstances, but Hermione was soon distracted by the giggles and whispers of her two roommates. Instead of standing opposite and attempting to hex one another nonverbally, they were eyeing the boys in their class.

“Who do you think he would be best with?” Parvati whispered, pointing at Seamus.

“Ooh,” Lavender giggled. “I wouldn’t say no.”

Parvati added her quiet giggle and they continued on.

Snape was too busy making Harry’s life hell to notice, or so Hermione had thought. As end of class drew near, he slid up silently behind the two girls as they contemplated whether Ron or Harry would be a better marriage prospect for Lavender.

“Miss Patil, Miss Brown,” he said smoothly, startling the girls into silence. “Since you were too distracted by your own company to adequately perform today, I suggest more practice. Perhaps during detention. I don’t care how simple-minded you are, even you can grasp the concept of age. Until you are old enough to get married, you are not to discuss such things in my classroom. Ten points from Gryffindor.”

Hermione ducked her head to hide the smirk on her face. Snape didn’t know it, but his had just become her favourite class.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lavender makes a few appearances in this story. I'm sorry to admit she's barely more than one-dimensional. One day I might try writing a story to flesh her out and do justice one one of JK's fab creations, but for now... she's just a silly teenager. Sorry. You have been warned.


	7. No Escape

There was no escaping it.

Talk of The Bloody Law was everywhere. The paintings were discussing it. The ghosts were debating it. Even Peeves was floating around pelting people with rice – sometimes cooked, sometimes not. Worst of all were the students who were all swooning over The Bloody Law; even the allegedly clever Ravenclaws talked of little else. Despite Dumbledore’s warnings, several seventh years were making arrangements to get married.

“This is ridiculous!” Hermione huffed as she watched a pack of girls sighing dreamily over a bridal magazine. “Do they not realise that marriage is an Unbreakable Vow? They would willingly throw their lives away for a crush!”

“Well—“

“Shut up, Ron,” Harry warned. “We’re not talking about it at breakfast.”

“Hermione was,” the boy said defensively.

“She wasn’t going to bring _that_ up,” Harry said. His tone and glare somehow managed to get across his hidden meaning of their friend’s arranged marriage.

Hermione snorted. “You’ll say Voldemort’s name when no one else will, but you’re afraid to say the word ‘marriage’?”

He shivered as she said it. “It’s just wrong,” he insisted.

“We know,” she said flatly. “Believe me.”

“No, I mean it’s _wrong_ ,” he dropped his voice to a hushed whisper. “You’re going to be my Godmother, Hermione… has that even occurred to you?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ve had about two months to consider all this, Harry. I’ve found every disturbing thought there is to find.”

“Mail’s here,” Ron said eagerly, keen to interrupt whatever row might be forming between the two.

Hermione glanced up, not expecting anything. She was surprised to see an owl swoop down and deposit its letter in front of her. It flew away and was promptly followed by a second, third, fourth and fifth.

“What on Earth?” she questioned, taking up the envelopes with some interest.

“Hermione,” Harry said with something verging on a laugh. “Do you not realise what tomorrow is?”

She frowned. “No,” she said slowly as she mentally ran through her assignments. There were no tests or anything worth noting, not for a few more weeks. It was only the eighteenth. Even with NEWT-level material, their two-and-a-half weeks of classes were not enough to warrant even a surprise quiz.

‘Wait…’ she thought. ‘It’s the eighteenth.’

She gasped as the date hit her. It was the day before her birthday, the day before she turned seventeen. She looked down at the envelopes in her hands, horrified, dropping them as if they were a diseased rodent threatening to bite her. She quickly wiped her hands on her robes.

“So those are…” Ron hesitated, turning green, “marriage proposals?”

“Must be,” Harry said. He reached across the table to pick one up, but Hermione slapped his hand.

“Don’t!” she cried.

“Ow! Why not?”

Professor McGonagall hurried down the aisle toward them, her face as impassive as it ever was, but her voice held the barest hint of her anxiety when she spoke, “Miss Granger, those letters, please.” Hermione refused to touch them, preferring to use magic to send them from the table to the napkin McGonagall held in her hands. Wrapping the envelopes securely in the thick cloth, the old woman eyed her meaningfully, “I would suggest you wash your hands immediately, Miss Granger.”

“What was that about?” Ron demanded.

“Early proposals,” Hermione said, fighting a wave of nausea. “They could be covered with love draught to make me choose them.”

“Cheating bastards.”

“I guess you can’t escape it, then,” Harry said darkly, “not if they’re asking a day early. You’ll have to say ‘yes’ to someone.”

She nodded and looked back at the high table. Seeing the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress talking furiously, she felt a pain in her head that she hadn’t felt since the that day in July when the Daily Prophet’s headline announced the new law. Glaring her helplessness at no one in particular, she raced to the nearest washroom to scrub her hands raw.

“Looks like someone feels filthy,” a sneering voice echoed in the tiled room. “Face it, Granger, no amount of soap will ever get you clean. The dirt is in your blood.” Hermione said nothing, refusing to dignify the girl’s bigotry with a response; Pansy didn’t seem to notice or care, stepping closer to continue her taunting. “So, who would be sending you so many letters?”

“Hate mail, most likely,” Millicent decided with a cold laugh.

“Oh, don’t be cruel,” her friend chided. “Isn’t it your birthday tomorrow, Granger? Maybe you’ve got someone pining for you.” She smirked as if such a thing were as likely as Lord Voldemort reading Harry Potter a bedtime story.

“What if I have?” Hermione snapped. “What if I have a boyfriend? What if I have a pureblood who wants to marry me? What is it to you?”

“Now she’s so desperate she’s making up stories,” Pansy laughed.

“What’s his name?” a low moan came up from the U-bend of the last toilet.

“Oh, Merlin, not her, too,” Millicent groaned. “Let’s go before they infect us with their filthy germs.” With a hideous sneer, the girl pulled her friend from the washroom leaving Hermione alone with the despondent spectre.

Hermione sighed and sank to the floor, never so grateful for the ghost in all her life. “Thank you, Myrtle.”

The voice bubbled up from the toilet again. “Are you just making it up?”

“No,” Hermione sighed. The news would be official the following day, so she might as well get used to saying it aloud. “There is someone. He’s going to propose tomorrow.”

“What’s his name?”

“I’d rather not say just yet,” she hedged. “I don’t want it getting out too soon.”

“You’re making it up,” Myrtle decided.

“You’ll see tomorrow,” Hermione promised, closing her eyes and leaning her head against the cool tile wall in an attempt to alleviate her headache. “I wish it were already tomorrow.”

oOo

The nineteenth arrived much sooner than Hermione had expected, as she felt firm hands grip her shoulders and shake her awake. The girl blinked and groaned and stared into the face of her Head of House.

“What?” she asked groggily, fighting her way into consciousness. “What is it?”

“Get dressed, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said quietly. “The Headmaster wants to see you as soon as possible.”

“Why? What time is it?”

“It’s two o’clock,” the woman said, her voice hushed but no less stern. “Happy Birthday, Miss Granger. Please hurry, the Headmaster is waiting.” Hermione did not see her leave, but the sound of her tartan dressing gown rustling toward the door told her that the woman was gone.

The girl stood slowly, the thick rug beneath her feet doing nothing to ground her in reality; she was still half-asleep even as she moved to her bureau, thinking this all a rather boring dream.  In the nearly black room, alone and half-dressed, the woman’s words sunk in and pulled her fully and painfully into consciousness. Happy Birthday… She was now seventeen, of-age.

Moving as quickly as she could, the young woman dressed and ran from her bedroom. If they were waking her at such an hour, time had to be something of importance and she did not want to keep either the Deputy Headmistress or the Headmaster waiting. She met Professor McGonagall in the common room and followed the woman’s hurried path through the dark corridors and secret passages. Neither spoke until they reached the stone gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster’s office.

The gargoyle moved aside to allow them passage without the woman having to offer up a password. She turned instead to Hermione, gripped her shoulders in something rather close to a hug and said, “Congratulations, Miss Granger. I wish you happiness.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Hermione said numbly.

Happiness? How could the woman believe such a thing was possible, Hermione wondered. She was two hours into her seventeenth year, standing alone on the stairs that were leading her to the Headmaster’s office. She might be young, but she wasn’t foolish enough to believe that such an early morning visit was for pleasant reasons. Had the Ministry changed the law? Had they found out about her arrangement with Sirius? Any number of things might have happened, and she considered each one as she ascended the stairs and entered Dumbledore’s office.

“Miss Granger, do come in. Sit down,” Professor Dumbledore greeted her warmly. “Would you care for some tea?”

“No, thank you,” she said, making no effort to disguise her mood. “Why am I here, Professor?”

He smiled pleasantly. “To select your fiancé, of course,” he said, gesturing to the pile of letters on his desk. The five from the morning had multiplied by at least three. She gulped down the lump in her throat as she eyed the teetering stack of envelopes. Were there that many Death Eaters so eager to ensnare her?

“Wasn’t that already decided, professor?”

“Not in the eyes of the Ministry, no,” he replied disdainfully. “A formal acceptance must be made to one of your numerous proposals. Only after an officer of the Department of Marital Duties and Affairs has signed it will the engagement be official. Only then will you be safe.”

“But it’s two o’clock,” she said, emphasising her point with a face-splitting yawn. “Who would be there to approve it at this hour?”

Dumbledore just smiled, his eyes bright despite the unbearably early hour.

“Don’t put anything past Old Dumbles,” the deep voice of Sirius Black commented as he dropped into the chair beside her. “If he can get me out of bed at this hour, he can do it to anybody.”

The Headmaster’s eyes twinkled with delight. “Excellent. Now we are all here, we may begin,” he declared. “Sirius, have you the proposal?”

Sirius handed a piece of paper across the desk. The old man unfolded it and read it thoroughly to ensure it was all in order. Hermione craned her neck to get a look at it. She expected it to be some handwritten declaration, but it was a standardised form with only a handful of blanks to be filled in. It was rather disappointing.

“Perfect,” Dumbledore said, rising from his chair and walking to the fireplace. A brilliant flash of green later and the letter was gone. He turned back to them, “We will not have to wait long. Are you sure I can’t interest you in some tea?”

“No, thank you,” Hermione said again. “Who is there to accept it?”

“I’d love a cup,” Sirius said, leaning back in his chair. His role fulfilled, he was able to relax.

“A friend,” Dumbledore said without elaboration and waved his wand, a full tea set appeared on his desk. “Do help yourself.”

The green flames erupted again, sending ash and a letter flying into the room. Dumbledore caught the paper in his hand, the same hand he had used to conjure the tea and gesture to the proposals. Hermione thought it strange that he should suddenly favour the one hand while leaving the other hidden in the folds of his robe. Dumbledore was generally a man of grand gesticulation; she could not imagine why he would secret away his dominant hand.

Her observations were put on hold as the Headmaster held the letter out for her. “Miss Granger, I believe this is for you.”

Hermione took the envelope and opened it. The paper inside looked no more personal than the last one, all straight script and long blanks that had been filled with their names, birthdates and blood statuses. She read it twice. “All I have to do is sign?”

“Yes, the Ministry is nothing if not proficient,” the Headmaster smiled and stirred the sugar into his tea. “In the areas where it matters least, at any rate.”

She took a quill from the desk and signed on the line indicated, handing the form across to Dumbledore for his approval. It felt like a strange exam. There was only one question and no right answer, yet it would haunt her as no other test would.

“That will work splendidly,” the old man said.

The letter, like the previous one, was sent into the Floo Network. Minutes passed as they waited for final and official approval. Sirius and Dumbledore did not seem in the least bit disturbed by the long wait, each content with their tea and the silence. They must have been extremely confident in the person authorizing the engagement.

The flames changed colours one final time and a scroll was returned. This, unlike the previous form letters, was handwritten with a flourish.

“’On this day, the 19th of September 1996, the Ministry of Magic does hereby recognise the acceptance of the proposal of marriage by Hermione Jean Granger from Sirius Orion Black.’ Official signature and blah blah,” Sirius read. “Well, there’s no escaping it now; you’re stuck with me.”

“I think it’s the other way round,” Hermione commented.

“Perhaps a symbol of the impending bond might be in order,” Albus suggested.

Hermione could not imagine what the old wizard was talking about. Sirius, however, smiled as he dug into the inner pocket of his jacket. “You are not going to be disappointed. I promised you the most ostentatious ring I could find…” He pulled the jeweller’s box from his pocket, looking from it to her and back. After a pause, he took her hand and pulled her to her feet.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m only going to get to do this once. Might as well do it right,” he said. She frowned, not understanding his meaning until he dropped down onto one knee.

Panic rose in her at the sight of him in so formal a pose; her mind flit back to the early afternoon in Oxford where he made plain his plans to be a good and useful husband. That had been strange enough, but to have him proposing properly was too much. It made it too real. “This is completely unnecessary,” she protested. “Stand up. You don’t have to.” She gripped his arm and pulled, trying to get him to stand.

“Shut up,” he said, shaking off her hands.

She scowled. “You’re not supposed to say ‘shut up’ to the girl you’re proposing to.”

“I am when that girl is you,” he smirked. “Hermione, will you marry me?”

She could only stare at him, too dumbstruck to believe that this was her life. 

“I will take that awed silence as a ‘yes’,” he said and slid the ring onto her finger.

The chill of the metal around her ring finger was proof enough that this was reality and not an extremely bizarre dream. She looked down at her hands, small and ink-stained as they always were, and saw the addition of a massive ruby so large it nearly covered the length of her ring finger from first to second knuckle. She would have thought the single, blood red stone would be enough, but apparently the jeweller thought otherwise, for he had added a few diamonds for good measure.

“Wow,” she said quietly. “That really is ostentatious.”

“Sirius Black always delivers on his promises,” he smiled proudly. 


	8. Love Bites

Hermione stuffed her hand deep into her pocket as she walked to breakfast, determined to keep anyone from seeing the bloody ring. That was the name she had given it in the few short hours she had been forced to wear it, The Bloody Ring; a rather fitting moniker since it was The Bloody Law that forced it onto her finger.  If she could, she would remove it, but the damned thing was stuck. No matter how hard she tugged, The Bloody Ring would not budge. It had not caught on her knuckle when Sirius put it on her hand in the early hours of the morning, so she was lost for a reason why it caught painfully on the knuckle now. It was extremely inconvenient.

She tried buttering her toast using only her right hand. The bread slid around her plate irritating her even further. With a huff of annoyance, she pulled out her wand and resorted to magic to prepare her breakfast.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, just get it over with. They’ll all see it eventually anyway,” he told her and yanked her hand free. His eyes grew enormous at the sight of the engagement ring. “That _is_ massive.”

“It’s embarrassing,” she hissed and shoved her hand back into her robes.

“How much did he spend on that?”

“I’ve no idea, but I’m sure it was too much,” she said. “Everything he does is too much. I told you about the books, right? And last night?”

“Yeah,” he nodded thoughtfully. “I doubt Fred would’ve gone to all that trouble.”

“I don’t want to be trouble,” she insisted.

“Too late for that,” Ron said with a grin.

She scowled at him and slumped on the bench, eating her breakfast as well as she could with sickness in her stomach and only one hand. “Come on,” she ordered the moment she finished picking at her toast, grumbling all the way to the classroom, taking a seat on the left side of the room, half-hidden in shadow, where no one would see The Bloody Ring if she pulled her hand from her pocket, which she still had no intention of doing.

Transfiguration seemed to be going well enough. Everyone was too preoccupied with their work to bother noticing that Hermione had veered from her tradition of sitting front row, dead centre and that she kept one hand stowed away inside her pocket, not that anyone in their year ever paid that much attention to her to begin with. Still, the girl was quite pleased that no one had pointed out the oddity of her behaviour and she thought, for one short moment, that she might make it through the entire day without anyone finding out about her engagement.

She thought wrong.

Her lemur, a beautiful, male specimen with pure white fur on his body and distinct black rings on his tail, took a fancy to her wand. As she waved it before the primate to turn the animal back into the beat up old copy of Shakespeare’s _Twelfth_ _Night_ that McGonagall had given her at the start of the lesson, he reached out and took hold of her wand. His dextrous little fingers, managed to steal it from her grasp before leaping from her desk and under Harry’s.

“Get back here with that!” she cried and chased after her lemur, reaching under the desk and just barely missing his tail. She cursed, following the ringed tail as the creature ran around the room, finally chasing him onto the top shelf of a bookcase near McGonagall’s desk.

“Miss Granger,” the professor called. “Return to your seat.”

“But my wand, professor. My grade!” she replied and reached with both hands as high as she could. The lemur remained just out of reach on the top of the bookcase.

“You have completed the assignment,” the woman informed her. “What the creature does after you bring it into being has no bearing on your grade. Return to your seat and I will retrieve your wand.”

Hermione fell into her seat, crossing her arms and grumbling about uncooperative primates while the rest of the class muttered behind her. McGonagall transfigured the lemur and returned Hermione’s wand. The woman glanced sharply around the room, forcing everyone back to work without a single word spoken. The girl spent the remainder of class practicing her nonverbal spells, attempting to summon her quill from one side of her desk to the other. It was time wasted.

As she exited the classroom, fretting over her inability to make her quill move even a fraction of an inch, Hermione found her path blocked by a solid wall of students. Gryffindors and Slytherins stood side-by-side, each too intent on the bushy-haired Prefect to bother caring who was standing next to them. From the intimidating line, Lavender and Pansy stalked forward, the intensity of their faces enough to make the girl step backwards.

“What is that?” Lavender demanded.

“What?” Hermione glanced down at her robes, worried she had gotten something on them.

“ _That_ ,” the Gryffindor pointed to Hermione’s exposed hand.

She gasped and shoved her hand behind her back but failed to notice Parvati standing there. The girl grasped Hermione’s hand and pulled it to where they could all see it.

“That looks rather like an engagement ring,” Parvati declared loudly.

Millicent snorted. “She’s just making it up,” the girl insisted. “What pureblood would want to marry _her_?”

“A damn good one,” Ron spat, pushing Parvati off his friend and standing like a guard beside her. “Piss off, the lot of you.”

“Who is it then?” Pansy demanded. “If you aren’t making it up, then you’ll give us his name.”

“What’s it matter?” Harry asked. “It’s no one you know.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Ron said. “He was in the papers an awful lot. And his family is mighty old and well-connected… They might know him, might even be related.”

“Oh, stop it,” the girl sneered. “This is just stupid.” She turned and stomped away. Most of the others followed when they realised that Ron and Harry would not back down and that Hermione would not give her fiancé’s name.

When only their friends were left, Lavender came closer and grabbed her hand again. “That is an amazing ring. Whoever he is, he must really love you.”

Hermione tore her hand free and ran as quickly as she could to the washroom, not caring that it was the one on the second floor that girls avoided for a very good reason. She splashed her face with water to cool the embarrassed red of her cheeks.

“Rumour has it,” Myrtle’s squeaking voice whined, “that you’re engaged.”

“For once, rumour has it right,” she said.

Myrtle floated closer, the chill radiating off her ghostly body made the young woman shiver. She examined Hermione’s hand just as all her living counterparts had done, disbelievingly, almost suspiciously. That really was beginning to grate on her nerves. What, precisely, was so unbelievable about a man liking her?

“So what idiot did you manage to Confundus into proposing?” Malfoy’s drawling voice echoed in the tiled confines of the washroom.

“A boy!” Myrtle shrieked and fled into her toilet. “A boy in the girls’ room!”

Ignoring Myrtle’s immature outburst, Hermione glared at the intruder. “Unlike some people, I don’t need to use magic or money to win anyone over, Malfoy.” She recalled telling him something similar back in second year and remembered how his smug smile had fallen; he had turned to throwing slurs. Appalled as she had been at the time, some tiny part of her grinned to have hit the mark so accurately that day. Today was different. His smug smile did not falter at her words.

“No, you wouldn’t,” he agreed, his granite tone at odds with his self-assured smile. “Some just have people flock to them, however undeserving they might be, and the rest of us have to claw for all the recognition we can get.”

“What is wrong with you, Malfoy?” she stepped away from him, worried more by his strange confession than his proximity. “Why do you even care who I choose to marry?” She knew on the whole why he cared. Voldemort wanted her in his grasp to weaken Harry and punish her, to make an example of her to all upstart Muggle-borns, but, specifically, she didn’t see why Malfoy would have any interest in her at all.

His eyes flashed as the smile finally faded. “Did you know what’s happened to my father, Granger? What you and Potter did to us? My father is in Azkaban because of you. And now _he_ is punishing us for what _you_ did.” He stalked forward, forcing her further from the door. “I was going to win back our favour with you. If I handed you to him, everything would have been forgiven.”

 “So sorry I actually found someone I want to marry, Malfoy,” she retorted with bravery she really did not feel. Malfoy was clearly desperate; desperate cowards will resort to anything to get what they want.

And he did.

An invisible wave of magic crashed into her, throwing her into the wall.  The wind rushed from her lungs as if she had been punched in the gut. Even with the wand held tightly in her hand, she could not manage to gather enough oxygen to say a defensive spell. Malfoy waved his wand a second time to send her wand and hope clattering across the room as she coughed and clawed at him. He dug in his pocket, pulling out a vial and forcing the contents down her throat. Even as she spat it out, her head began to spin and grow fuzzy.

“Granger,” Malfoy snapped, drawing her glazed eyes to his face. He looked very handsome, his nearly-white hair haloed from above by the sconces, making him look like an angel, the warm light of the flames adding colour to his pale cheeks.

He smiled at her. “Do you love me?”

She nodded eagerly.

“Will you send that ring back and marry me instead?”

“Of course,” she said breathlessly, her lungs only just regaining some of their lost air. With the promise of a husband she actually loved, she tugged excitedly at the ring, but still it refused to come off her finger.

“Give it here,” Malfoy demanded and stepped closer.

Standing this close she could smell his cologne; it smelled like freshly mowed grass and new parchment, like books, old leather books and the newly printed books she had gotten as an engagement present, like a sweet citrus smell she couldn’t quite place. “You smell wonderful,” she said dreamily.

Malfoy snorted, took hold of her wrist, his grip so tight that her skin actually felt like it was burning. He wrapped his fingers around the massive ruby, pulling so sharply that her finger broke. She cried out in just as he did. 

“What’s the matter?” she asked. She touched his face gently, all her thoughts focused on his safety and not the throbbing of her own hand.

“Don’t touch me!”  He pushed her away, gasping in pain as he touched her shoulders. Hermione looked at his hands. Angry, red blisters were rising up on his palms as if he had put his hands to a white hot blade rather than a cool ruby.

“What magic is this?” the boy said through gritted teeth, his burned fingers curling uselessly inward, as he stumbled away from her.

“Where are you going?” she asked. She pulled him close, hugging him tightly to make his hurt and anger go away. He struggled against her affection. Even injured he was physically stronger that her. He shoved her off easily and ran from the washroom. She was left there to cry by the boy she loved, as if she meant nothing.  Too heartbroken from seeing him sneer at her so hatefully, she just sat on the cold floor and cried.

“Boys are awful,” Myrtle said with a little too much joy in her voice.

Ginny came searching for her some time later and found her still on the floor, injured and crying. “Hermione, what’s wrong?” she asked, hugging the girl and bringing her to her feet.

“He left me,” Hermione moaned, sounding as much like spectral resident of that washroom as anything else.

“Who left you?”

“Draco,” she said, failing to notice the strange look her friend was giving her. The crestfallen girl sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve, flinching as her broken finger snagged on her robes. “It’s all The Bloody Ring’s fault. Horrid thing won’t come off.”

“Come on, Hermione,” Ginny said gently. “Let’s take you to the hospital wing.”

“Oh!” Hermione smiled brightly. “Maybe Draco will be there.”

“Why would he be in the hospital wing?” Ginny questioned.

“He hurt himself on Sirius’s awful ring.” The girl scowled down at the ruby and started to pull at it, not caring that the action sent nauseating shockwaves up her arm. It had angered her love enough to scare him away; if she had her silver potions dagger, she would have cut her finger off to remove the bloody thing from her presence.

Ginny forced her hand away from the ring and pulled her friend from the washroom, coaxing her in the dulcet tone Hermione had often heard her use on Dean when he was being jealous, “Leave it for now. I’m sure Madam Pomfrey knows a spell that can remove it. Draco wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself, would he? He’d want your finger in tact so he could put his own ring on it. I’m sure that would make him very happy.”

With the prospect of finding the boy she loved waiting for her and removing the ring that so aggravated him, Hermione all but ran through the school to the hospital wing. She found, to her disappointment, that Draco was not there. She dropped onto the nearest empty bed, completely bereft but with no more tears left to shed over her misfortune.

“Whatever is the matter, Miss Granger?” Madam Pomfrey asked. Her wand glowed as she performed a diagnostic spell.

“Madam Pomfrey, I think Malfoy might have done something to her,” Ginny said cautiously.

“Don’t you talk about him that way!” Hermione shouted. “I love him. He’s wonderful and he smells… of everything I love.”

“Like Amortentia?” Madam Pomfrey asked, her voice hard and face knowing. She cast the spell to mend the girl’s finger as she waited for her reply.

Hermione considered the smells. “Not quite the same, no. Amortentia didn’t have that fruit smell like Draco does. I love that smell.” She sighed and lay back on the bed wishing that he was there so they could know that wonderful citrus smell that went straight to her head.

“Drink this, Miss Granger,” the woman ordered and held a brimming goblet of potion out for her. Hermione drank it down without question, coughing at the sour taste that coated her tongue.

“What was that?” she demanded. Her vision was blurred from the tears the disgusting potion had brought to her eyes and her throat burned painfully, she suspected from bile.

“The antidote,” replied the witch dryly. “I would take more caution around certain wizards until after your wedding if I were you, Miss Granger. Drink this, it will help you rest, and I will inform the Headmaster of Mr Malfoy’s advances.”


	9. The Bloody Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are aptly named.

The arguing reached Hermione before she was completely awake, altering her dreamscape from a lovely, if rather surreal, world of an endless library with a carpet of freshly-mowed grass and decorative orange trees in full bloom. Her library vanished, replaced by the darkness behind her eyelids. She tried to will herself back into that library, but it was no use, the voices kept her firmly anchored in consciousness.

“Go away,” she groaned and pushed the pillow down over her ears to shut out the voices.

“Now see what you’ve done!” Madam Pomfrey said in a clipped tone. Hermione just knew she was waving her finger admonishingly at whomever it was that was talking so loudly and she silently thanked the woman for her efforts.

“Hermione?” Harry asked.

She felt the bed droop as he sat beside her. “You know very well who it is. Why are you yelling in the hospital wing?”

“Just a lively debate, pet.”

She frowned beneath the soft and sterile pillow. Harry never called her ‘pet’, and his voice was nowhere near that deep, even when he was speaking in hushed tones as he just was.

“Sirius?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said, a smile in his voice. The girl peeked out from under the pillow and saw him standing with Professors Dumbledore, Snape and McGonagall; Harry on her bed; Ron, Ginny, Neville and Luna sitting on the bed next to hers. She felt the electric undercurrent to the assembly, a tangible alertness she was familiar with from so many Order gatherings at Grimmauld Place but with an edge of fear. They were worried.

“What’s going on?”

“They’re discussing Malfoy’s punishment,” Ginny informed her. “I personally vote for expulsion and disembowelment, but apparently Professor Snape thinks that’s a bit harsh.”

Despite the humiliation she had suffered and knowing that Ginny was not making a joke, Hermione laughed. “Sorry to have worried you, but I’m fine. He didn’t get the ring and I’m not going to marry him.”

“Told you!” Sirius declared triumphantly. “Git was trying to steal my fiancée. I deserve a crack at him.”

“That ‘git’ is my responsibility,” Snape glared. “I will tend to him, not you, Black.”

Hermione watched them bicker, amazed that Sirius was taking the assault so personally. If anyone deserved to be as angry as he appeared to be it was her; if she had only his reaction to go by she would think it was Sirius who was attacked and humiliated. He looked positively livid that Snape was denying his claim for revenge. She turned away before she thought too hard about what he might do to Malfoy for his actions and looked to her friends. “Why are you all here?”

“Guarding against the Perspanterburies,” Luna said seriously. “Very nasty creatures.”

“And waiting for you to wake up so we can get a copy of your schedule for tomorrow,” Ron added.

She frowned. “You know my schedule, Ron.”

“No, we need a _detailed_ schedule,” Ginny insisted. “Down to the minute, everything planned out and colour-coded like you always do. There’s no way we’re leaving you alone for a second if that’s the kind of game those bastards are playing.”

“Language, Miss Weasley!” McGonagall chided sharply from across the room.

“Sorry, professor,” she replied reflexively.

“It’s only one day,” Hermione insisted. “I can manage for one day.”

Her friends levelled her with flinty stares. She shifted uncomfortably at the idea that she needed protection. She was the brightest witch of her age, able to perform spells none of her classmates had ever heard of. Why should she need guarding? It was insulting. Her protests only met with more glares; these, the members of Dumbledore’s Army that had faced Death Eaters just months earlier, would not be pushed aside by one of their own and she knew it. “Fine,” she sighed grudgingly, matching their gaze with equal intensity. “Give me parchment and a quill.”

Luna gave her the requested items and they waited impatiently for her to make up a schedule. She handed it over and they started scouring it for times they might change shifts or have a girl handy to accompany her to the washroom.

“We have class, but we’ll be back to get you for dinner,” Harry said decisively. “Don’t even think of leaving without us.” She scowled her response and he nodded his approval of her (unwilling) compliance.

Left alone with no one but the professors and Madam Pomfrey, Hermione took to viewing the ‘lively debate’. Watching Sirius and the professors argue was no help to her darkening mood as it just reminded her of how little control she had left over her own life. She slumped down and glowered at them, hoping to convey through expression and posture what she couldn’t in words. It didn’t work and they continued discussing her as if she were not in the room.

Professor McGonagall left to preside over her class, then Snape, leaving only Dumbledore and Sirius to discuss further spells that might protect her.

‘I hate Voldemort,’ she thought for probably the hundredths time since July and the passing of The Bloody Law.

“Well, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said brightly. “You appear to have protection enough in place. However, I will ask the portraits to keep watch over you for the remainder of the week.”

“Yes, Professor,” she replied dully.

Sirius dropped onto the bed next to hers, hands behind his head and ankles crossed, looking more comfortable than he had any right to. “I’d offer you a brandy to get you through the rest of the afternoon, but Dumbledore wouldn’t let me bring any,” he sighed and she found herself smiling despite the irritation still spiking painfully in her temple.

“No offense, Sirius,” she said. “But why are you here?”

“That git attacked my fiancée. I’ve every right to be here,” he sniffed in a manner befitting a teenager.

“They called you in because he forced Amortentia on me and broke my finger?” she questioned sceptically. His presence seemed completely unnecessary given her minor level of injury. Really, she was mortified more than she was hurt, which hardly called for his presence.

“No, they didn’t even bother telling me,” he admitted.

“Then how did you even know—“ she stopped, thinking over the horrid encounter in the washroom, Malfoy’s scream of pain and the horrendous blisters that appeared on his palms after he had grabbed hold of her engagement ring. “ _The ring_! What did you do to it?” She brought it close to her face, studying every facet of the ruby and diamonds. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, but if it was bought in Diagon Alley anything was possible.

“I didn’t do anything,” he replied, sounding rather insulted at her accusation, but adding quietly after a pause, “I didn’t have to.”

“Why not? What is it?” she demanded. “Why won’t it come off? How did it burn Malfoy when he grabbed it?”

“Magic,” Sirius said vaguely.

She narrowed her eyes and tightened the grip on her wand dangerously.

“Fine. It’s a Goblin-made ring. They forged fidelity charms into the gold so that it can’t be removed once a proposal has been accepted.”

She wished she had something to throw at him. How dare he make such presumptions! It was bad enough being married to someone she didn’t love, but to have him making suppositions about her character was unacceptable. She was not the one making sly comments about sleeping with people. If anyone deserved to have such charms cast on them, it was Sirius. She glared her anger at him, demanding, “ _What?”_

“You’ve not been seventeen for a full day and you already have twenty-three marriage proposals sitting on Dumbledore’s desk and a bloody Malfoy trying to tear that thing off your broken finger,” he replied coolly. “I think I made quite the good choice with that particular feature.”

Once again she was reminded that Sirius would likely manage to win every argument. It was infuriating. He couldn’t even let her have her outrage. She folded her arms across her chest, refusing to admit he had been right. “How did it burn him?”

He grinned. “What sort of stone is it?”

“A ruby,” she frowned, annoyed that he was changing the subject.

“Wrong. It’s a Blood Diamond.”

“That’s what Muggles call diamonds mined in warzones and with forced labour,” she said.

“It’s also what wizards call diamonds made from blood,” he countered.

She looked down at the ring again. The red stone still shone as brightly as any polished ruby would. Dense as it was, she found it hard to believe that it was made of blood, but Sirius had never lied to her. Her nose wrinkled up, “Ew.”

“It’s old magic,” he continued, grinning at her childish reaction. “Like the magic Lily used to keep Harry alive.”

“Blood magic?” she tore her eyes away from the stone to look at him. According to a book she had read, blood magic was the oldest form of magic known to exist. Spells cast with blood were some of the most powerful, though often the most difficult because blood was selective, specific to only one person. If Voldemort had used another boy’s blood to revive himself, he would still be vulnerable to the magic running through Harry’s veins. Knowing that did not help her figure out why the ring had burned Malfoy. It had to be someone special to have caused such a severe reaction.

“Whose blood is it?” she asked.

He smiled. “Mine.”

She blinked several times in quick succession; if it were not for the downward angle of her lips it would have appeared that she was batting her eyes at him. “Yours?”

He nodded.

Her eyes fell to the ring again. Sirius’s blood was on her finger, solidified, cut and polished to rival the neighbouring diamonds in beauty and lustre, but it was still blood. “I’m trying not to saw ‘Ew’ again.”

His bark of laughter filled the ward. “You can be grossed out all you like, but that thing is staying right where it is,” he told her. “I’ll know when another man – or, in this case, git – touches you for too long. Anyone tries to remove it, I’ll feel it like a fire in my blood.”

“Malfoy was burned when he touched it and me,” Hermione said, still staring at the magical red stone. Massive and intimidating as it was, the aptly nicknamed Bloody Ring was becoming something highly interesting. There were so many things she wanted to go research about it, forms of magic new to her that she wanted very much to study.

“Fidelity charm plus blood magic equals bad news for any man who isn’t me,” he informed her as a self-satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Like I said, you’re stuck with me.”

“Oh. My. _GOD_!” a shriek pierced the room.

Sirius was on his feet instantly, wand trained on the intruder.

“Put it down,” Hermione said hurriedly, struggling to escape from the mass of blankets Madam Pomfrey had tucked around her as she slept. “It’s just Lavender.”

The girl squealed and pointed an excited finger between the pair. “Tell me I really just heard what I think I heard. Did you really just say ‘you’re stuck with me’? As in you are her fiancé?”

“What if I did?” he asked.

“Well, you’re Sirius Black, right?” she ventured, bouncing with excitement but too nervous to step any closer. “You look so different than your ‘Wanted’ posters.”

“Two years and a clear name will do that,” he replied and shifted his wand in his fingers, clearly unsure what to make of the eager girl.

“Lavender, why are you here?” Hermione interjected before the girl had time to ask anything else.

“Hm?” she tore her eyes off Sirius and looked at Hermione’s flushed cheeks and nervous lip-chewing. “There was some kind of accident with third years brewing an advanced potion in secret or something. Big mess. We need Madam Pomfrey.”

“I’ll go get her,” Sirius volunteered. His desire to escape the conversation was obvious to both girls.

“So… is it him?” Lavender grinned and sat down on Sirius’s vacated bed, scooting so close to the edge that Hermione was amazed she didn’t fall to the floor. The girl’s eyes remained fixed on Hermione’s face with an intensity she had never shown before. It was disquieting to say the least. “It is him!” Lavender practically screamed. “He’s the one! Oh my god! He’s gorgeous! And so scary! I practically fainted when he stood up and got all protective of you. You are so lucky!”

“Shut up,” Sirius growled from the doorway, his voice intimidating in a way Hermione had never heard before. It certainly had an effect on Lavender; the girl clamped her mouth shut immediately.

“Poppy’s on her way,” he said. “Now get out.”

The girl hurried around him, stopping in the doorway to get a view of his backside and sending Hermione a silent thumbs-up before running down the hall.

“She’s annoying,” Sirius said flatly. “I’m glad you aren’t like her.”

“If I were, you wouldn’t have to worry about marrying me. I’d have been too vapid to get involved or be of any interest to Voldemort,” she replied heavily. That had been one of the first thoughts to enter her brain back in July, after the anger faded and hope had been denied.

Sirius dropped back onto his bed, face still heavy with his own thoughts. “I can’t picture that,” he admitted. “And I tend to think that’s a good thing.”

“Thank you,” she smiled. “That is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He smirked. “Now I know how to flatter you. Remind me again, exactly how far will flattery get me with you?”

“Git.”

“Swot.”

 Companionable silence fell between them, leaving Hermione with time to think about what had happened to her, precisely how she had failed to defend herself. The attack had been a surprise, yes, but if she had not been handicapped by her inability to breathe she could easily have fought the boy off.

“Are you any good at nonverbal spells?” she asked, drawing Sirius from whatever thoughts had been occupying him.

“Of course,” came his smug reply. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, in the washroom,” she said slowly, a little concerned that talking about the incident might anger him but needing to explain so that he could know why she wanted to learn, “he had knocked the wind out of me, but I still had my wand. If I could do nonverbal spells, he wouldn’t have been able to get any closer.”

Sirius nodded his understanding and waited for her to finish.

“But I can’t,” she admitted. “I read the textbook and I’ve been practicing, but I just can’t do it.” She kept her head down, sure that he was laughing at her silently. He had once called her the brightest witch of her age, but now she couldn’t manage one of the simplest NEWT-level tasks. This whole day was becoming more humiliating by the minute.

“It’s not really as hard as you think,” he replied and she did not miss the absence of mirth in his voice. He sounded almost like Remus as he explained, “Speaking a spell is just the most natural thing. We say it almost as soon as it enters our head, so we forget the amount of concentration involved in performing the magic.” He paused, taking out his wand and swishing it through the air, a colourful band of light flowed from the tip. “It’s like relearning how to walk. If you think about all the things you have to move, it’s impossible to get everything right, but when you actually start doing it… it’s the simplest thing in the world.”

“But what do I _do_?” she asked.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered and she did. “Pick a spell, something simple from first year.”

“Okay.”

“Remember everything you learned about it – the pronunciation, wand movements and speed, where you were when you mastered it, everything. See yourself saying the incantation.  Picture it in your mind, the words on your tongue, your lips forming around the sounds,” he urged her on almost seductively. “Now pick up your wand.”

Her fingers wrapped lightly around the polished wood, feeling the magic tingle against her skin like she had not since it first chose her. She lifted the wand, swished and flicked.

Daring to open her eyes, she thrilled at the sight of her quill hovering inches off the bed in front of her. Had she said the words aloud, the quill would have been bouncing off the ceiling. Weak as it was, that it worked at all was enough to bring an enormous smile to her face. But like a cartoon coyote running off a cliff without realising it, awareness of the levitation sent the quill falling back onto the duvet.

She pouted, disappointed that the spell had ended.

“That’s my girl,” Sirius beamed. “Soon you’ll be hexing my competition into the ground without saying a word.”


	10. Protection

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Hermione winced as the headache intensified. Lavender had wasted no time in divulging the name and sexiness of her fiancé, and it had been nonstop whispering and questions since she left the hospital wing for dinner the night before. She and her engagement were the biggest news since the term had begun barely three weeks earlier.

She looked up and saw a girl watching her expectantly and realised that she had been asked another question. Who the girl was and what the question had been, she had no idea. She wasn’t even listening to anyone anymore.

“I’m trying to study,” Hermione replied with as much politeness as she could muster. That much was true. She had found a tattered old book about blood magic in the library and had been finding it very interesting before this stranger of a girl decided to start talking to her.

“You’re always studying,” the girl said. “Take a break.”

“I’d rather not,” she said and turned pointedly back to her book, ignoring any further attempts at conversation.

“Hermione!” Harry said as loudly as he dared.

“What?” Hermione snapped. “I am studying!”

The boy took a step backward, startled by the violence of her reaction. “I noticed,” he said flatly. “I noticed when you ignored me for the past fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen?” she repeated. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“Well, it’s time for dinner. Ginny’s saving you a seat,” he said.

“Oh good,” she sighed.                  

Relief filled her as she sat between Harry and Ron in the Great Hall. Annoyed as she was to require guards, she did enjoy the buffer her friends provided against the repetitive inquiries. None of them asked her a single question about her impending marriage or fiancé. Neville and Luna had been told the truth of the arrangement and Seamus, while uninformed about the true circumstances of her engagement, was simply not that interested. He kept the conversation firmly on the topic of Quidditch, Quidditch tryouts and his possible role on this year’s Quidditch team. If she didn’t think it would cause a small scandal, Hermione might have kissed him for his single-mindedness.

As the dessert plates vanished from the table, a scroll appeared before her.

“Dumbledore?” Harry asked, looking over her shoulder at the familiar looping script.

“Travel arrangements, most likely,” she agreed and unrolled the parchment. Reading quickly, she stood. “We better pack. He wants us in his office in an hour.”

“So soon?” Ron moaned. His sister slapped him upside the head and followed Hermione out.

Even though she was only going away for a weekend, half of which would be spent in whatever flouncy or fluffy dress Ginny had chosen for her, Hermione was stumped for what to pack. Once her toiletries were in her bag along with a change of nightclothes, she had no idea what else to bring. Should she pack expecting to be smothered by her mother or Mrs Weasley the morning of the wedding? Would she be keeping up appearances and spending Sunday with Sirius at Grimmauld Place? Or would Molly find the idea unseemly and insist she stay at the Burrow? Her choice of clothes altered with each situation. She finally settled for bringing clothes for all three, which left her lying atop her overstuffed bag in the hopes of forcing the zipper closed.

“I can tell you’re nervous,” Ginny laughed at her from the door. “You’ve somehow managed to forget you’re a witch.”

“What?” Hermione blushed and realised a bit too late that magic could easily shrink her clothing and make her bag not only easier to close but a lot lighter, too.

A few incantations later and her considerably less bulky bag was slung over her shoulder as she walked down the stairs and through the common room. Whispers dogged their exit, as had been expected. Four Gryffindors heading out for a weekend was highly unusual, especially when one of them was Harry Potter and another was his friend who was recently engaged to an incredibly gorgeous and much older man.

“Think the rumours will let up once I’m married?” she questioned.

“Doubt it,” Ron grumbled, earning his second slap of the evening. “Ow! What? She asked!”

“You’re an idiot, Ron,” his sister said flatly and took the lead, marching them through the corridors toward Dumbledore’s office at a brisk pace.

Hermione knew the girl was eager for the wedding. She had been acting as if the coming ceremony was the greatest thing to ever happen. Never mind that it was arranged and loveless, that it was all to keep Hermione from being tortured and killed by a Death Eater husband; Ginny had never once treated this marriage as anything but a beautiful thing. While the parade of magazines and fabric swatches grated on her nerves and the wilful refusal to face reality saddened her, Hermione loved that the marriage was making someone happy.

Although, she suspected that the thing Ginny loved most was the prospect of using Hermione as a living doll to be dressed up, made up and played with. She shivered to imagine whatever dress Ginny had selected.

“Come in,” the Headmaster’s voice called.

They entered his office slowly, unsure what to expect. Somehow the idea of guards and decoys had come into Hermione’s brain, but that was likely from spending too much time watching Harry and Ron play wizard chess by the fire in the common room. What she saw was the Headmaster standing alone, holding a dented and rusted bumper from an old car. While Hermione was relieved that she had not inconvenienced anyone else with this marriage, she felt a tendril of anger uncurl in her gut that after all the plans and debate and precautions and blood diamonds she was not worth at least one guard.

“We cannot risk travelling via the Floo Network, I’m afraid,” the man spoke with purpose and seriousness. He set the bumper on the floor and trained his wand on it. “Portus!”

“Step closer,” he ordered. “The portkey will activate momentarily.”

They obeyed immediately, driven forward to touch the chill metal by the dark urgency in his voice. Before she had even a second’s worth of time to think why they were rushing, she felt the familiar hook take hold behind her navel and the office was gone.

“Goodness, I was getting so worried!” Mrs Weasley cried and rushed over to hug her children.

“The others?” Dumbledore inquired, the edge of alarm still colouring his voice.

“Placing wards around the house,” she said. “I’ve not heard from them since they left.”

“What’s going on?” Harry ventured to ask.

“Nothing to worry about, dear,” Molly assured him with a loving pat on the cheek. “Go get settled into your rooms. I’ll have tea ready in just a moment.” She hurried from the room and began bustling around in the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” he asked again.

Dumbledore considered the boy, no doubt remembering the harm keeping secrets from him had nearly done just months earlier. “Word of the wedding has gotten out. It seems Miss Brown’s information network is more thorough than even I suspected.”

“Is everyone alright?” Hermione asked. “My parents?”

“Your parents are perfectly fine, Miss Granger,” he said. “Wards have been in place these last few weeks as a precaution. Remus and Miss Tonks are out reinforcing them now under the guise of helping prepare the house for tomorrow.”

“But why is everyone so panicky?” Harry demanded.

The man’s conviction to tell the truth seemed to flicker slightly as his blue eyes examined his students.

“They got to Sirius,” Hermione said. She wished she could claim some grand connection with her betrothed, but her question had not come from some loving bond. It was simple logic. Since the attempt to force her into changing fiancés had failed, she knew that Sirius would be the next obvious target. Remove the competition and Hermione would have no choice but to take a new husband.

“He was attacked while in Diagon Alley this morning,” Dumbledore said quietly, probably so Molly would not hear him. “No need to panic. His injuries were slight, I assure you.”

“Then where is he?” Harry asked.

“Recovering,” said the Headmaster simply.

“But—“

“No, Harry,” Dumbledore insisted, his tone kind but final. “We need no hero tonight.”

Harry glared and grumbled but did not protest again.

“Now, I am leaving you in Mrs Weasley’s capable hands,” he said, a slight twinkle daring to return to his eye. “I look forward to seeing you all tomorrow.” The dirty old bumper glowed blue as he turned it back into a portkey. Seconds later he was gone, leaving them in a confused and worried mess in the sitting-room of the Burrow.

“Well,” Ginny said quietly, “if they hurt Sirius enough to scare him off, you’ll have to marry Fred and then you’ll get to be my sister.”

Hermione laughed. She couldn’t help it.

“That is nowhere near funny,” Harry said darkly. If Hermione wasn’t a girl she would have been in serious danger of getting slapped.

She did feel bad. The man had been injured because of her. He was also Harry’s best hope for a normal, loving family. She knew she shouldn’t be laughing, but she couldn’t stop.

“Hermione!” Harry shouted, his scowl faltering under her prolonged fit of giggles. He chased her up the stairs with threats of giving her something to really laugh about, his fingers reaching out and tickling her sides, never staying there for more than a second. The tiny part of her brain that was not dedicated to figuring out a way to fight off Harry’s attack wondered if his fingers would get burned if they stayed on her too long. At that moment, gasping for breath and laughing herself hoarse, she was hoping they would get burned.

“Serves you right!” Harry declared triumphantly, his anger long faded and turned to laughter.

“That’s no way to treat your future Godmother, Harry Potter,” she wheezed.

“Oh, that does it!”

She shrieked as he launched himself at her a second time. Her declaration ensured that no amount of pleading or apology would make him stop until she was bright red and hiccupping from laughing too hard.

Tea, biscuits, a hiccup removal spell and a change into pyjamas later and Hermione was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. She hoped Sirius was alright and wished that there was a way to avoid hurting him any further.

‘There’s always cancelling the wedding,’ she thought.

A glance at the clock told her it was literally the eleventh hour, far too late for the wedding to be avoided. Her mind turned instead to ways that she might keep Sirius from being killed. Clearly, the Death Eaters wanted her and would do just about anything to get her. She suspected that they would have no sympathy for a widow; they would start sending petitions and force her to choose a new pureblood husband before his body was even cold.

She felt the pain in her temples grow as her options dwindled from few to none.

It frustrated her to no end. Not just that her hand was being forced, but that Sirius had been left so vulnerable. She was guarded by walls and wards, professors and portraits, fidelity charms and blood magic while Sirius was left with only his wits and wand. Perhaps if she had a way to keep tabs on him the same as he did her then she would feel a bit better about the arrangement. Yes, he was a grown man, but one with a track record of doing rather stupid things without thinking them through. His impetuousness had led to false accusations of murder. Although, she did admit, he was maturing in that respect; he had not run off, half-cocked in June without telling anyone else where he was going or why. The old Sirius, the one who hunted Peter Pettigrew down with murderous intent, would not have told Remus or any other Order member that he was going to the Ministry to save Harry.

Even with this slow start toward responsibility, she would prefer knowing at the time that he was attacked instead of finding out about it hours later when she was useless to help. After the wedding, she would start researching to make a proper plan. After the wedding, she would make him safe. After the wedding, she would make him happy.

“After the wedding,” she mumbled sleepily as she drifted off, goal in mind.


	11. Drumming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a wedding... and bickering.

“WAKE UP!”

Hermione shot to her feet, wand at the ready and sleep-encrusted eyes darting around the room for signs of danger. All she found was Ginny bouncing merrily in front of her, eyes glittering, cheeks bright and a grin so wide that she looked mad.

“What is it?” Hermione demanded.

“It’s your wedding day!” Ginny announced and attacked the girl with a tight hug. “Aren’t you excited?”

“No.”

“You aren’t thrilled?”

“No.”

Ginny’s smile sank into a thin and threatening line. “Hermione Jean Granger, today is the day you are getting married. I don’t care why it’s happening, but it is the happiest day of your freaking life and if you don’t at least pretend to enjoy yourself you _will_ regret it. Breakfast is almost ready, so get downstairs.”

Even with the unbearably early hour of the morning, the kitchen table was filled to capacity, Harry, Remus and Tonks taking the places vacated by the Weasleys’ eldest sons. Ginny bustled around beside her mother, setting the table and the mood. Despite the girl’s jubilance, Hermione could feel the anxiety thrumming just beneath the smiles and chatter, see the tension in Arthur’s face and Remus’ shoulders, hear it barely contained in Fred and George’s jokes.

They were worried.

She could not be certain about what, precisely. There were so many things to worry about, the chances of them each focusing on the same thing was unlikely. For her part, Hermione was concerned about not throwing up. Her throat felt tight and sore as the bile rose up.

“Drink this,” Remus said, pushing a cup across the table to her. Her stomach turned at the thought of drinking some horrid potion meant to calm her nerves, but when she looked down she saw he had provided her with a simple, steaming cup of tea.

“Thank you,” she said and took the warm porcelain into her shaking hands. Just holding it helped.

“Breakfast will be ready in a moment, dear,” Mrs Weasley said.

She didn’t have the heart to tell the woman that the idea of food made her sick. Watching those gathered around the table, she could see that no one looked overly thrilled by the notion of eating, but minutes later Molly was setting plates of eggs and bacon down for everyone.

“What--?” Hermione gaped at the plate before her; the two dry pieces of toast, while generally unappetising, looked and smelled heavenly.

“I remember how I felt on my wedding day,” Molly smiled and dropped a kiss on the girl’s head. “Eat what you can. There’s plenty more if you’re up to it.”

The woman sat down at the table. “Oh, do you remember our wedding day, Arthur?” she sighed wistfully. “I was so excited I barely slept all night, but come morning I was terrified. My mother came to wake me up and started going on about duty and expectations. After that I couldn’t think straight!”

“Too busy imagining the wedding night?” Tonks grinned and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“Eugh!” Ron spat out his eggs and glared down the table at the young woman.

“How could I after that?” Molly laughed, ignoring her son’s outburst. “Oh, but I wish you could have seen Arthur in his dress robes. I never saw anyone so handsome.” She giggled girlishly.

“Mum! We do not want to hear this!” Ron protested, but she didn’t hear him over the sound of Tonks’s encouragement.

Blushing, she kept reminiscing through breakfast, much to Ron’s disgust and Hermione’s delight.

Hermione was having so much fun listening to Mrs Weasley that she forgot why they were talking about weddings to begin with. It all came crashing back down on her when Remus stood; the fear and resentment and panic returned the moment he set his hands on the table and pushed his chair back. Then he spoke and it only got worse.

“I had better make sure Sirius is presentable.”

There was nothing inherently bad in what he said; she knew that, really she did, but a gut-wrenching fear shot through her as her mind immediately sprang to the previous day’s attack. She had no idea how badly he had been injured and Remus’s words made her think that maybe he was in worse shape than Dumbledore had let on. And while they were gathered around the warm, welcoming Weasley table laughing, Sirius was all alone and in pain.

“You boys go on,” Mrs Weasley said, hugging each of her sons and Harry in turn as if they were soldiers heading off to a battle already lost. Hermione truly hoped the mournful atmosphere was all in her head.

“Off you girls get,” the woman pointed to the door. “Mrs Granger is expecting us in forty-five minutes and only Nymphadora is ready!”

With more energy than seemed possible, Ginny grabbed Hermione by the arm and sprinted up the stairs, dragging her along behind. “You shower first,” she insisted and pushed the bride into the washroom.

The hot water eased the strain in her muscles but did little for the persistent pain stabbing into her temples. She could have stayed all morning under the stream of clean, scalding water. She had been in there such a long time, she wondered if they were already late and why no one had called her yet. Just as the thought came to her, Ginny started pounding on the door as if it were a drum, beating a fast, hard rhythm that filled her ears even as the hiss of the old showerhead echoed and re-echoed around the tiled room.

The drumming noise took over and echoed in her ears as she stepped out of the washroom, as she dressed, as she pressed her palm to the Wellington boot, as she hugged her parents.

The drumming never stopped. It filled her ears even in her bedroom, drowning out the considerable noise everyone made as they raced around the Grangers’ home, frantic in their attempts to get ready on time.

The drumming stayed with her all morning. It dulled her thoughts. She sat in a stupor as her mother arranged her hair and Ginny her makeup and her dress. It thumped in her ears and beat against the inside of her head as she walked down the steps and into the back garden. She could not hear the music over that of the drumming. It pounded on her brain and blinded her to the faces in the seats. As she walked, her feet moving mechanically down the path toward Sirius, the drumming grew louder. If the noise would only let up she might have been able to judge the level of his injuries, but it just kept getting louder with each step forward. As the speed of the drumbeats increased, she finally realised what it was, for it could not possibly still be the noise of Ginny pounding on the washroom door. It was her. Her heart, beating loudly, frantically inside her chest as if it might break free if it beat hard enough against the cage her ribs made for it.

Knowing what it was did nothing to help quiet the drumming noise and the intensity only continued to build until her feet came to a stop before the vicar, a man she vaguely recalled from childhood. As he, Vicar Martin if she remembered correctly, began to welcome the motley assembly, the drumming came to an abrupt end, silence taking its place in her ears and head. She doubted that a man she barely knew, even a man of the cloth, could have stilled her heart’s uncontrollable rhythm by the power of his presence and voice alone, and she was right.

The drumming had not ended as his lecture on the meaning of marriage began, but with Sirius’s hand wrapping tightly around hers.

Sirius had done it.

She glanced at him, expecting him to show some trepidation or vague discomfort at their involuntary arrangement. Instead she found him smirking down at her.

 _Smirking_ at a wedding.

Smirking at _their_ wedding.

The sheer cheek of it!

“What?” she asked in a small but demanding voice.

He leaned closer, smirk still firmly in place, and responded in a low whisper. “That looks suspiciously like a bodice.”

“That is completely inappropriate,” she hissed.

He just smiled. “I’m not the one wearing a bodice. Quite low-cut, too. I can see clear down to Cornwall from up here, you know.”

Vicar Martin cleared his throat pointedly, drawing their attention back to the ceremony. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Sorry, Vicar,” Hermione ducked her head and realised that Sirius was right. Not only was she in a bodice, it was so low and tight that she was embarrassed to be wearing it. It was absolutely unsuitable for a wedding. Her grandparents were here and Ginny had her in this? What had she been thinking letting that girl pick out the dress without demanding final approval of it?

“Sirius Orion Black,” Vicar Martin said, his voice rising as he began the vows of commitment, “repeat after me:

“I do solemnly declare,”

Sirius said the words back, somehow without sounding as if he were parroting them mindlessly.

“that I know not of any lawful impediment,

“why I, Sirius Orion Black, may not be joined in matrimony to Hermione Jean Granger.”

The old man’s eyes fell to her. “Hermione Jean Granger, repeat after me.”

She did, saying the words with as much confidence as Sirius had, or at least trying to. Insecurity pulled at her, making her think she sounded like a child playing a game of pretend with her friends while wearing a tea towel on her head instead of a veil.

When lightning did not strike them dead, Hermione took it as a sign that things were going to be alright. She let out the breath she had been holding and found she couldn’t really breathe very well in the damned bodice. She snuck her hand away from Sirius’s grip to pull at the horrendous article of clothing, but he caught it and forced her to stand still as the vicar spoke again, calling on their friends to come forward with a reason for the marriage to be denied. Hermione waited, expecting her mother to pop up in vehement protest.

“I like it,” Sirius whispered to her in the brief silence. “The bodice, I like it.”

“You would,” she snipped. “I am going to kill Ginny.”

“For making you look that hot?” he asked.

“Will you stop talking like that during our wedding!”

“Will you both stop talking, period,” Vicar Martin said, his stately robes and mellow voice somehow made the request sound polite despite the words.

“Sorry,” they chorused and a low chuckle rolled through the guests in attendance.

The man’s cloudy blue eyes fixed on Sirius again, an eyebrow rising to indicate his displeasure in how they were behaving during such a sacred ceremony. “Sirius Orion Black, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together according to God's law in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

“Of course,” he said with a smile.

The other eyebrow rose on the old man’s face.

“Say it right,” Hermione hissed.

“I will,” Sirius said in reply to both the vicar and Hermione.

“Hermione Jean Granger,” the man turned his disapproving eye to the young woman and began to speak the vows again. She replied and repeated and vowed and declared and wondered how many times she had to promise to honour and love Sirius when magic ensured one and nothing could force the other.

Vicar Martin bound their hands together with a silk ribbon, declaring, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”

“What about Dark Lords?” Sirius muttered.

“Shut up,” she told him quietly, her voice shaking slightly. Her agitation was growing. They had been vowed to death, given each other rings and now had their hands tied; the kiss had to be coming soon. The old man started blessing their guests, leaving Hermione and Sirius bound together. She remembered now why her parents had stopped going to church regularly, the long-winded prayers and general feeling of unworthiness… or maybe that was just Vicar Martin’s effect on people. As the man finally returned to bless the couple, Hermione shifted closer to Sirius.

‘Here it comes,’ Hermione thought, the drumming starting to pound in her ears again. She forced it down so she could hear the words, know when she had to stand on her toes to reach her husband’s mouth. Nervous butterflies flung themselves with abandon against her stomach as the prayer came to an end.

“Amen,” Vicar Martin said and stepped back from the couple, his job officially done.

“Well, that was different,” Sirius said as he started to unwind the ribbon on their hands.

“Leave it!” Tonks shouted. “We need photographs!”

Hermione glanced over her shoulder and saw the young woman stumbling toward them, her hair in softened black spikes. She looked more like Sirius today, which Hermione suspected was the point. He had depressingly few relatives attending on his behalf. The excitable woman came to a stop and trained her camera on them, snapping photo after photo of them standing and doing nothing. She dropped the camera, frowning. “Will you both _do_ something?”

“Like what?” Hermione asked.

“Try smiling,” Sirius muttered.

“Git.”

“Swot.”

“Kiss!” Ginny called.

“Oooh! Yeah, pucker up!” Tonks ordered and grinned maniacally, lifting her camera again, waving and gesturing for them to step closer to one another as she framed the shot.

“You ready?” Sirius asked, the smirk gone from his face.

Hermione shrunk back, stepping away from the guests, noticing for the first time that everyone in attendance was looking at them. Her parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles were all watching them expectantly. Harry and Ron and Remus were standing close, dressed in formal suits and looking an odd mixture of relieved and slightly sick.

“They’re all looking at us,” she pointed out. “How abou—“

Sirius leaned in and captured her mouth just as her lips were pouting around the vowels. The drumming filled her ears again, but she still managed to make out the cheers. He didn’t press his advantage, nibble or lick at her lips. He didn’t have to. The chaste, closed-mouth massaging of his lips on hers was enough to have her blushing Gryffindor scarlet and fighting to keep the mew of pleasure in her throat. Just that simple, church-approved kiss was better than any of the snogging she had done with Viktor fourth year, and, for the briefest moment, she wondered how good Sirius would be if he kissed her properly.

‘Bad!’ Hermione shouted at herself. ‘He is your fake husband. He doesn’t want to kiss you at all, foolish girl.’

Sirius pulled back, “Not bad.”

“Git,” she muttered.


	12. A Frank Assessment

Hermione missed the drumming noise.

Without that hard, deafening beat filling her head, she was all too aware of everything and everyone around her. She saw her Aunt Lisa talking with Kingsley, looking more than a little intimidated by the man’s height and impressive formal dashiki; saw Fred and George chatting up her cousin Louisa. She heard her grandmother asking Professor Dumbledore why he was wearing a costume to a wedding and her mother hissing at Tonks to keep her hair to one colour. Worst of all, she saw Sirius smirking at her.

“Problem, Mrs Black?” he asked lightly as he danced with her.

“You’re smirking,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Can you not smirk when you look at me? My parents will think you have ideas.”

“I always have ideas.”

“Not about me you don’t,” she said. “Not in front of my grandparents.”

“So I can have ideas about you provided we’re in appropriate company?” he chuckled. He always had a way of making her arguments seem ridiculous.

“Oh, shut up,” she said. It was a struggle not to glare at him. Married people usually waited a while before they glared at one another, she was sure. They were supposed to be in love. People in love did not glare… did they? “I’ve no idea how we’re supposed to be acting,” she admitted. “But I’m quite sure we shouldn’t be smirking.”

He laughed again, pulling her closer as they danced. “Quite right. I’ll save the smirking for later.”

She hadn’t thought about later.

She didn’t even know where she would be later. Obviously, she could not stay with her parents; they thought she was marrying Sirius because she wanted to, which meant the newlyweds ought to be going on a proper honeymoon. Mrs Weasley would probably offer no resistance if she requested to spend the night and following day at the Burrow, but she was not quite sure if that would be the right thing to do.

Besides, what if Sirius wanted her to stay with him? She had yet to ask him.

“Um…”

“May I cut in?” Phillip Granger requested.

“Of course,” Sirius smiled and handed his wife off to her father.

Phillip danced slowly with his daughter, more from lack of skill than to keep with the tempo of the music. Gradually, he led them across the temporary dance floor toward the house and further from Sirius. When the other man was well out of earshot, Phillip finally spoke. “I got them.”

Hermione’s smile grew enormous. “You did?”

“Only took me two games,” he offered a confident smirk of his own. “David will never learn.”

“How much does Dr Bradshaw owe you?” she asked, worried that her father was purposely playing the man into debt.

Phillip considered the maths. “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “after the cost of your presents were deducted… I believe Dr David Bradshaw, worst poker player in the history of the game, still owes me nearly one thousand pounds.”

“Dad!” she chided. “That is just cruel! You could let him win once in a while.”

“It’s good for him,” he insisted.

She bit her lip. That was what Ron said when he forced her to play wizard chess, knowing she would lose; he loved that there was at least one thing that she was rubbish at, and wanted her to be humbled with it occasionally. She felt for Dr Bradshaw; the man was a brilliant painter and art historian, but clearly a miserable card player and a man who desperately needed to learn when to fold.

“Come on,” Phillip pulled his daughter off the dance floor. “While he’s looking the other way.” They hurried through the doorway and into the house, her father leading the way. He jogged up the stairs and into the spare bedroom, closing the door shut as soon as her train finished entering the room. “I’ve been hiding them from your mother,” he admitted. “She insisted we get you a toaster.”

“I told her we’ve no electricity,” she sighed.

“I think she wanted to rub that fact in a bit.”

Hermione clicked her tongue, which only made the man smile. “You sound just like your mother when you do that, you know.” He laughed as she folded her arms, “Look just like her when you do that, too.”

“Dad!”

“Right, _Mrs Black_ ,” he said, still laughing. “Who are these people anyway?” He pulled the white sheet off the painted canvases and looked at the portraits his friend had made.

Hermione lost her breath. They were perfect. The expressions just as she had thought they should be, the mischievous twinkle of the eye, confident curl of the lip. It was obvious why Dr Bradshaw singlehandedly restored every painting of note that passed through half the museums in Oxford. When she found her voice again, she replied, “Lost friends.”

Phillip nodded as if he understood, though he was missing quite a lot of information. “Do you want me to put them down with the rest of the gifts?”

“No,” she said as she considered how best to present them. “I want to surprise him.”

“How does one surprise a wizard?” Phillip asked as if it were a philosophical question, running his fingers down the sides of his chin and pursing his lips in thought.

“Easy,” Hermione smiled. “Get a better wizard to help.”

Picking up the front of her skirt, she ran down the stairs and into the back garden, carefully hiding herself behind the larger clusters of guests until she managed to reach the Headmaster’s side without Sirius seeing her. “Professor, I wondered if you would help me with something,” she requested politely.

“Naturally, my dear Mrs Black,” Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling brightly as he offered her his arm.

Ninety minutes later and some sixty miles to the east, Hermione stood back and smiled at Dumbledore’s handiwork, amazed that the old wizard could magically demolish a wall and rebuild it again inside two hours and without breaking a sweat. She hoped to one day know how he managed to do so much with so little effort. Until that mystery was solved, she had to settle for gratitude. Thanks to the Headmaster’s seemingly infinite skills with magic, the two portraits Dr Bradshaw had painted now hung proudly on the new wall of the entrance hallway of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, taking the place of Walburga Black’s empty frame and blank canvas.

Wand in hand, she stared intently at the paintings and said the spell to bring them to life, “Animus!”

As the inhabitants began to shift inside their frames, she smiled, catching their eye. “Hello, who are you?” the man asked, his hazel eyes watched her uncertainly.

“Hermione Granger,” she said. “No, make that Hermione Black.”

“Black?” he repeated. “As in Sirius Black? As in ‘there’s no way in hell I’ll ever get married and doom myself to a life of nagging and inherited insanity’ Sirius Black? As in—“

“Yes! That Sirius Black,” she cut in before he could continue.

“Oh… you must be _good_. OW!” he whined as the woman beside him smacked his head.

“Ignore him. Nice to meet you, Hermione,” she said. “What can we do for you?”

She looked at the woman, noting her gentle smile. “Just stay quite when Sirius comes in. I want him to be surprised.”

“Oh, he’ll be surprised all right,” the man grinned, a wicked glint in his eye.

“I’ll keep him quiet,” the woman promised.

“How do you plan to do that, exactly?” he inquired with a wiggle of his eyebrows. The woman leaned in and kissed him. “Ooh, I like this keep quiet plan.”

The young woman rolled her eyes at the portrait’s foolishness and turned to the other painting. The young man watched her with curiosity from inside his frame but said nothing.

‘Sirius is going to be so shocked,’ she thought with pride.

“HERMIONE!”  

“The master of the house approaches,” the hazel-eyed man whispered.

Hermione waved for him to be silent before stilling her hands and turning to the door, “Sirius, what’s the matter?”

The man barrelled into her, wrapping her in a boa constrictor embrace and refusing to let go even as he yelled at her. “What’s the matter? You’re honestly asking me what the fuck is the matter?” he shouted. “You disappeared! What’s the big idea of vanishing like that? I thought Death Eaters got you!”

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “Really. I just had to do something.”

“Alone? Without telling anyone where you were going? Are you fucking stupid?”

“That is no way to talk to your wife, Padfoot!” the painting admonished, adding in a whisper, “Believe me, I know. I called Lily daft once and she hexed my mouth shut for a week.”

The boa constrictor tightened. “I’m going mad.”

“Given our lineage, I wouldn’t doubt that,” the previously silent young man spoke. His voice was as deep as his brother’s but with an edge of superiority that Sirius lacked.

“Definitely going mad if I’m hearing that voice again.”

“Sirius, I can’t breathe,” Hermione gasped.

“Serves you right for wearing a bodice that tight,” he said absently, but loosened his grip all the same.

“That is a very tight bodice,” the portrait of James Potter agreed. “You got married in that? Naughty thing!”

“I didn’t pick the damn dress!” Hermione glowered.

James just grinned at her.

“Are you Muggle-born?” Regulus Black inquired, forgoing any grand reunion with his brother in favour of studying Hermione.

“Yes. Why?” she answered, shifting a bit uncomfortably under his prolonged gaze. When she decided to give Sirius portraits of James, Lily and Regulus, she had not expected them to be at all interested in her.

“Figures that he would go for a Muggle-born,” the young man replied lightly. “Never did care for tradition.”

“I never thought he’d marry at all,” James insisted. “You should have heard him go on about the evils of marriage when he got pissed on my stag night. You would have been thoroughly ashamed on him, I’m sure, Hermione.”

“Oi!” Sirius called, finally breaking free of his shock now that they were insulting him. “That was eighteen years ago! I’m allowed a change of opinions in eighteen years. I like being married.”

“We’ve only been married two hours, Sirius,” Hermione muttered. “I don’t even live here. How can you possibly say that?”

“Where is here?” Lily asked.

“Grimmauld Place,” Sirius replied, his distaste for the address obvious.

The woman narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s with that face? What sort of house is this?” Hands on hips, she marched from her frame, through Regulus’s and then out of sight.

“She’s not going to be happy,” he commented. “Perhaps you should have redecorated like you wanted.”

James snorted and laughed at his friend.

“Oi!” Sirius sent a rude gesture at the painting. “Don’t you laugh at me, Potter.”

“You’re whipped!” James declared. “Wrapped around her finger!” He winked at Hermione, who just shook her head. He would never have dared to say that if his wife was in the frame with him. “Never thought I’d see Sirius Black willingly enter married life.”

Hermione dropped her gaze so he would not see her shame-filled face. If it wasn’t for her, Sirius would likely never have chosen the old ball and chain. Her husband’s reaction was far from resentful, however. “I get my bike, my drink, fags,” Sirius listed smugly and swiftly reached out, grabbing Hermione and pulling her flush against his body, “and shags. Married life isn’t half bad.”

“I will hex you,” Hermione warned and he released her immediately.

“Whipped,” James repeated.

“You’d listen to if you saw her fighting Death Eaters,” he said darkly. “She’s scary…imaginative.”

James grinned and readied himself for another round of laughter, but stopped abruptly when his wife shouted from a frame in the sitting-room. “SIRIUS BLACK! This house is completely unacceptable! There aren’t two rooms together that are even remotely liveable! And there is a bloody _hippogriff_ sleeping upstairs!” she hollered as she stomped back into view. “You will not be bringing that girl into this house.”

The men shrank back from her ire, even Regulus in his separate frame and Sirius whom she hadn’t the ability to physically touch. Hermione’s mouth twisted up into a smile as she watched the woman rant about the squalid conditions, noting the irony that she had won a present for removing the old ranting witch only to replace her with a younger one.

“What are you grinning at?” Lily demanded.

“Nothing,” she replied quickly.

“You will not be staying in this house, and that is final,” the woman declared as if she was the absolute authority on the matter.

“What?” Hermione asked, shocked that a painting she had commissioned and animated would dare to start bossing her around. Something snapped. Anger boiled inside her at the realisation that she was standing in a dress she had not chosen being ordered about by a painting she had created to celebrate a marriage she had not wanted to a man she did not love. There were far too many things out of her control and she was not having any more of it.

“I will live wherever I bloody want!” she declared loudly. “I am sick of everyone deciding what I’m going to do, with whom and when! I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you people control my fate any longer!”

She stomped from the hall, slamming the kitchen door shut behind her.

“Told you,” she heard Sirius say.

Thankfully, the man was clever enough to leave her alone. If he had shown his face, undoubtedly wearing that damned sympathy they all wore around her, she would have hexed him. As it was, she started tearing through his kitchen – _their_ kitchen – throwing every breakable plate, cup, saucer and bowl she encountered with as much force as she possessed, desperate to vent her frustration on something.

She did feel slightly guilty about destroying his – _their_ – things, which only made her angrier.

“Hermione?”

She took it back. Sirius was not clever.

“Are you alright?” he asked, daring to stick his head through the door.

Not waiting to see the horrid compassion on his face, she grabbed the dirty mug from the sink and threw it at him. He ducked, letting the cup fly over his head and shatter on the wall.

“I actually liked that mug,” Sirius commented mildly.

“I’ll fix it later!” she spat. “Leave me alone!”

“No,” he said, stepping over the rubble of his heirlooms, dusting off a chair and sitting down.

“Just go away!”

“No.”

“Why not?” she stamped her foot, hating that the heel absorbed none of the impact.

“Because I’m as angry as you and deserve the chance to break something, too,” he said candidly and casually pushed a plate off the table. It crashed to the floor and added to the girl’s considerable mess.

Hermione blinked, confused. “What?”

“I’m bloody annoyed!” he shouted. “I didn’t want to marry you! I didn’t want to marry anyone, ever!”

“Don’t you yell at me! It’s not my fault!” she hurled a wine glass at him.

Even as the crystal grazed his cheek, he snarled, “Yes, it is! You and your bloody cleverness, fighting wars too big for you. Why couldn’t you stay in school where you belong, you bloody swot?”

“Git!” she spat.

They glared hard at one another across the corpses of Sirius’s fine china and the ridiculous of it hit Hermione as hard as her anger had minutes before. She tried to keep it down, to maintain her hard expression, but the laughter refused to be contained. It slipped through, an involuntary snort at first, then a short laugh and finally a mad giggle. Sirius held out longer, but his bark of laughter soon joined hers.

“It’s a little late for all this, isn’t it? We are such idiots,” he said and dropped back onto the chair.

“I think that is a frank assessment of the situation, Mr Black,” she said, glancing around at the damage she had done. “Talk about tempests in a teacup.”

He laughed again, a slightly derisive edge to it that she feared might have been directed at her. As he spoke, however, those fears were vanished. “I think I would prefer my tempest in a tumbler right about now. I don’t know about you, Mrs Black, but I could do with a drink.”

She nodded.

“Kreacher!” he called.

The house-elf popped into the kitchen, a look of horror contorted his features from both the state of the kitchen and the sight of Hermione in a wedding dress. “Y-Yes, Master Black?”

“Wine, please, Kreacher,” Sirius said. “And don’t bother cleaning up the kitchen.”


	13. The Sunday After

“Ow!” Hermione whined, pulling the pillow over her face to block out the light which pierced her eyeballs painfully. “Oh, my head.”

“Serves you right,” a gleeful voice declared.

Hermione’s head was in no state to try to sort out who was talking, so she opted not to care. “Go away.”

“No, I was told you had to come downstairs for breakfast,” the man insisted. “Pancakes.”

The thought of food provided her the motivation she needed to get out of bed. She scrambled out from under the blankets and raced to the washroom, vomiting up what little she had eaten the day before. Since she had eaten virtually nothing, she was finished rather quickly.

Standing upright, she released a horrified gasped at the disturbing painting moving before her, only to groan as she saw its movements matched her own. Leaning in closer, seeing the smooth glass, she knew it was no magical copy of some Munch painting but her own reflection.

“Oh, what have you been doing?” she asked herself. Her makeup was smudged. Her hair, a tangle of veil and curls and bobby pins, resembled an abandoned squirrel’s nest. She looked down and saw that she had slept in her wedding dress, which had held up surprisingly well, wine stain notwithstanding. The splash of claret on her stark white dress reminded her of the night’s activities. She and Sirius had gotten drunk on hundred-year-old burgundy, broken every remaining dish in the kitchen and stumbled to bed. She frowned, her brain still not up to the challenge of thinking just yet. Where had she slept?

The frown only grew deeper as the young woman dug into the hazy memories of the previous night, Sirius telling her all manner of bad jokes, fond memories of Harry’s dad and some of his more illustrious exploits from school and the few good years he had before Azkaban, all of which had Hermione laughing until her face ached. She remembered vaguely his hands on her waist, steadying her on the treacherous journey up the stairs, but could not remember if his hands had gone anywhere else. There was talk of her garter, that he had not gotten to remove it as was tradition.

Frantically, she pulled up the layers of her skirt, cursing Ginny for picking a dress with so many. Her hands came to rest on her bare thigh. “Oh, bloody hell.”

She tore open the door and ran back the way she had come, returning to the bed in which she had been so rudely woken. Her feet skidded to a stop on the hardwood floor, her mouth dropping open as her heart missed several beats.

“Yep,” James grinned at her from the frame on the wall, “that’s Sirius’s bed.”

“Where did he sleep?” she whispered even though she knew the answer.

“There,” he said, pointing to the same bed. “You two looked so cute together, all drunk and cuddly. I was very disappointed you didn’t take advantage of your uninhibited state to do something you’d both thoroughly regret.” He sighed and shook his head.

“We didn’t?” Hermione fell back onto the bed in her relief. “Oh, thank god.”

“No lying down!” James admonished. “Pancakes!”

Grumbling, she struggled back to her feet and returned to the washroom to sort out her hair and wash her face. Sadly, she had no clothes to change into and was forced to head downstairs in the damn bodice. She paused outside the kitchen door, afraid of how big a mess they had left before retiring.

“Hermione, dear,” Mrs Weasley beamed as soon as she dared to open the door. “I was wondering when you’d join us.”

“Us?” the girl blinked, confused by the woman’s presence.

“Yes, us,” George grinned from the table. He sat between his twin and sister, across from Harry and Ron; Remus and Tonks bookended the table, with Sirius slouching in the chair nearest the door. She had not seen so many people at Grimmauld Place since the night of the marriage arrangement.

Sirius’s head fell back as if he couldn’t be bothered to hold it up, and he made a face of annoyance that only she could see. “Molly came to by to ‘bring your suitcase’,” Sirius informed her, his fingers making extremely sarcastic quote marks in the air. “She just wanted to make sure I didn’t try anything last night.”

“Did he?” Tonks asked hopefully.

“No!” Hermione said, though she did not know for certain and couldn’t ask with them all sitting there.

“I tried to get you drunk,” he said.

“And succeeded,” she replied as she dropped into the seat beside him and let her forehead crash to the table. It was testament to the pain in her head that she didn’t feel a thing when she collided with the wooden table top. “My head is killing me.”

“Drink this,” Sirius pushed a repaired cup over to her.

“Is it tea?”

“No, what good is tea? It’s whiskey,” he said. “Hair of the dog and all that. Just until the hangover relief potion is done.”

“You are a brilliant man,” she muttered and downed the cup.

“I’d be brilliant if I had thought to add another lock to the door before we went to bed,” he said. “Instead I get woken up at some ungodly hour by Molly Bloody Busybody over there shrieking that I’ve defiled you when we were both clearly still dressed.”

“What were you doing in the same bed together?” Molly waved the spatula at him threateningly. “Well?”

“Sleeping, obviously,” he snorted. “It’s what married people usually do in bed at six o’clock in the bloody morning on a Sunday, woman.”

She just clicked her tongue and turned back to the frying pans.

“Who cleaned the mess?” Hermione asked. Judging by his inability to sit up straight, she doubted Sirius had the energy or ambition to repair all the things they had broken. The man offered a vague gesture to his right.

“I did,” Remus said. He dropped his voice and leaned in closer so Mrs Weasley would not hear him, “I tried to stop her, but you know what Molly’s like.”

Sirius just batted the apology away. “I don’t care why you’re here. You cleaned up my mess, Moony, that’s all that matters.”

The conversation picked up around the table and became a buzz in Hermione’s pained head. She ate but only because Molly insisted, and talked but only when Sirius prodded her in the side to make her pay attention. After an hour at the table, she still didn’t know why half of them were there. She had to assume they had come for the same reason Mrs Weasley had, to make sure Sirius had not done anything to her. She wanted to say that it was the stupidest idea that had ever entered any of their brains, that the man married her to keep her safe and would not take advantage of her, but, after the slurred and giggled comments about her garter, she remembered nothing of the night until James shouted for her to wake up.

As they cleared away the dishes and the unwanted guests started to leave, Harry hung back. “I know you’re… um… getting settled… and everything,” he said awkwardly, “but do you think I could stay for a while and talk to them?”

Sirius hugged him. “You can stay as long as you want.”

Harry grinned and hugged his Godfather tight before racing across the sitting-room to talk to the portrait of his parents.

“He’s never going to want to leave,” Remus commented.

“I’m fine with that,” he smiled and turned to Hermione. “So, Mrs Black, would you care to join me in the anteroom? We have a lovely cauldron brimming with hangover remedy.”

She took his offered arm, but could not muster the humour necessary to return the light tone.

“Regretting me already?”

She bit down on her lip before whispering to him, “My garter, Sirius, where is it?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Wherever you threw it.”

“I threw it?”

He looked at her sideways. “You can’t hold your alcohol, Hermione. I made one little joke about tradition and you went off on some drunken feminist rant about the garter as a modern shackle or some such rubbish. You seemed to take it as a personal affront that I would dare try to take it off, so you did it yourself.” He stopped to grin wickedly. “Put on quite the show, too.”

She flushed. “What did I do?”

He laughed. “Nothing, really, but you do have some nice legs.”

“Oh shut up,” she glowered and folded her arms as he finished the potion and handed her twice the recommended dosage. Hangover cured, she ran from his presence, too mortified to bother being adult about the situation she had made for herself. It was humiliating. And worse, her dress was being as uncooperative as her memories. The only formal attire she had ever worn before had been the lovely, flouncy dress she picked up for the Yule Ball. That had been easy to operate, a simple zipper up the side and she was done. This contraption, by contrast, was impossible. The buttons were miniscule and located on her spine where she could not hope to reach them. Even with magic, she couldn’t get them undone. She tried directing a spell at a mirror so it would bounce off the reflective surface onto her back, but her aim was poor or the buttons were just stubborn.

A knock came at her bedroom door. “Hermione,” Sirius said. “Lily said you were fighting with your dress… and losing.”

“Go away! You’ve seen more than enough of me already,” she shouted.

“I’ve seen a leg, Hermione,” he assured her with barely contained entertainment. “One leg, which I’ve seen every time you wear your uniform.”

“Oh, come in,” she huffed. “I think Mrs Weasley jinxed it so you couldn’t undo the buttons. The damned thing is stuck.”

Clever man that he was, Sirius did not laugh as he entered. “Turn around,” he ordered. “What are you complaining about? These are not jinxed.” He made quick work of the irritatingly tiny buttons. She was soon hugging herself to keep the dress in place and Sirius was once again getting a prime view of more skin than she had ever wanted him to see.

“Well, maybe you’ve just more practice at this than me,” she retorted.

“No, I can’t say I’ve had much practice removing brides from their wedding dresses,” he frowned in much the same manner as when he was running through his memories looking for a bodice. “I’ve removed one or two bridesmaids from theirs, but you make the first bride.”

“Aren’t I special?” she cooed sarcastically. She knew she should not be snippy with him, not with this man who had already given so much to keep her safe, but she was standing around discussing his sex life while barely managing to keep her dress on. This was not the sort of situation that bred discourse, civil or otherwise, in her opinion. She just wanted him to go so she could get back into her normal clothes.

Sirius, however, did not seem all that inclined to leave. He was smirking at her again. “Yes, I’d say you are.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she questioned.

“Nothing,” he smiled and turned slowly to leave. “Out of curiosity, what do you plan on doing with that dress?”

She looked down at it and thought for the first time about what she was going to do with it. Traditionally, brides put their wedding dresses away as a keepsake or heirloom, but that only applied to regular brides. Hermione was certainly not one of those. She had no plans to have children, so she would have no one to pass the dress on to. That made it just a big, white, wine-stained, impossible-buttoned, seductively low-cut bunch of fabric that she had no use for.

“Nothing really. Why?”

“Just curious,” he said and left.

“He’s very strange,” she said to herself.

“You don’t know the half of it,” James commented.

“Will you go away!” she shouted. “There is nothing for you to see!”

“A bloke can hope, can’t he?”

oOo

Regulus watched her as she came into the sitting-room. “You looked better in the wedding dress,” he said, not impolitely. “Those make you look so… average.”

“I agree,” Sirius chimed in from his seat on the couch. “More bodices, I say.”

“Give a rest, will you?” Harry elbowed him and turned back to the painting where his mother was smiling at him.

Hermione tried very hard not to glare at her husband as she dropped into a vacant chair. Harry and Sirius talked merrily with the painted James and Lily, and she finished the book she had borrowed from the Hogwarts library. Blood magic was well worth more research, she decided as she set the book aside, turning to her old stand-by, _Hogwarts: A History_. A slight frown touched her lips as she opened the worn cover; the thick paper, dog-eared and softened by countless readings, was different. Her handwritten name was missing from the title page if only because the title page itself was missing. She frowned further and turned the page, seeing that the text began without crediting any author or editor. She had always been a fan of works by Anonymous, finding the idea of a subject so controversial that the author was forced to remain nameless rather exciting. Still lost for how such a work had found its way into her book, she read the words that had replaced the ones she knew by heart.

‘INTRODUCTION,’ the book read. ‘It may be interesting to some persons to learn how it came about that Vatsyayana was first brought to light and translated into the English language. It happened thus…’

So it was a translation of some old Indian text, she realised, still perplexed as to how it got inside her copy of _Hogwarts: A History_. Never one to turn her nose up at any sort of information, she kept reading about the history of this particular book, the title of which was still unknown. The book seemed rather comical, laying out in old fashioned English the archaic notions on what sort of woman was worthy of being married and how to go about marrying her. This had to be a prank, though it seemed so mild by Fred and George’s standards.

She kept reading, waiting for the moment the joke would became obvious. Perhaps it would start flying around the room shouting out quotes or a banner would explode from the book.

There was an explosion of sorts, but it certainly did not come from the book.

Turning the page, Hermione’s eyes grew wide at the illustration depicting, in as much detail as the ancient artist could manage, a very private act between a man and a woman. She slammed the book shut and glared hard at the only prankster in the room, one who smirked at the idea of bodice-rippers, one who had gone shopping for books that made the salesgirl grin.

“ _YOU!_ ” she shouted.

Sirius smiled placidly up at her, his grey eyes glittering with delight as she fought for what abuses to hurl at him. “Problem, pet?”

“Horrid – Childish – Completely— ” she stuttered her words, blushing furiously. Finally she managed to find the right words, short and to the point: “Rule Number One!”

“No pranking the wife,” he reminded himself and informed the curious audience. “Does that really count as a prank?”

“YES!” she cried and threw the book down, thankful that it didn’t spring open to one of the explicit illustrations.

“I think I ought to go…” Harry said as he slid from the room. His voice came to them from the kitchen a moment later, barely audible to Hermione in her fog of anger despite how loud the boy must have been shouting, “Professor! Thank god you’re here! She’s about to kill him!”

Hermione didn’t care which professor had chosen to arrive at such an unfortunate moment. She truly intended to hex her husband’s bollocks off for teasing her so callously.

“Mrs Black,” Professor Dumbledore said with a smile on his lips and voice, “perhaps such activities are best saved for later. We must complete the binding and prepare to leave for school.”

“I forgot about the binding,” replied Sirius with irritating calm.

“No point,” she grit. “I’m going to kill him before he has the chance to cheat on me.”

“Still,” Dumbledore smiled, unperturbed. “The formalities of marriage must be completed. The Ministry is watching for this spell even now.”

At his gesture they approached him. Sirius hissed as she dug her nails into his palms; Dumbledore pretended not to notice. The old wizard chanted, his sage voice adding to the ancient magic, as his wand waved around their joined hands. The magic pricked like needles on their skin as the invisible ribbon wound around them, binding them together in an unbreakable spell. “And it is done,” the old man said.

“May I kill him now?”

“Not just yet,” Dumbledore said. “Perhaps after lunch.”


	14. A Change of Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a law is amended.

The Great Hall was as loud as ever. Students laughed and shouted across tables to one another, discussing the coming Hogsmeade weekend and fast-approaching Quidditch season. Hermione was thankful she was no longer of any interest to anyone. Her return to school had been relatively uneventful, with only a minimum of whispering when the teachers started referring to her as ‘Mrs Black’ instead of ‘Miss Granger’.  With each subsequent weekend, more and more seventh and sixth year girls were being referred to by new last names, so Hermione was hardly special in that respect. The only difference that she could see was that she was not flaunting her marriage as the others did, showing off their rings and photographs of their weddings, talking endlessly about their husbands and how wonderful it was to be married.

Aside from the new name and address, nothing had changed for Hermione. It was a relief.

Post arrived as it always did, an owl dropping an envelope before her. She tore into it, eager for what her parents had to say.

Hermione snorted at the letter. “Apparently my mother has taken to calling Sirius ‘that husband of yours’,” she told the curious Ginny. She continued reading the letter until a cheer rose from several older students throughout the hall. “What’s that about?”

“Hermione, look,” Harry said worriedly as he pushed the Daily Prophet into her hands.

The headline ran: ‘Marriage Law Amended!’

She scanned the article quickly, searching for a reason why the news might have created such an enthusiastic outcry.

‘Due to the hasty marriages of convenience many witches and wizards have entered into because of Law 65,298-1/3, commonly known as the “Marriage Law,” the Ministry has elected to add an amendment. Under this new amendment, couples bonded after the passing of Law 65,298-1/3 are now required to consummate their marriage on a bi-weekly basis. According to Warwick Whyte, Director of the Department of Marital Duties and Affairs at the Ministry of Magic, “The reason for the law is to create a larger and more diverse wizarding community. Bonded couples who skirt their responsibility in producing wizarding children ought to be carted off to Azkaban for their disservice to our community.” Couples affected by this new change will be contacted via Owl Post.’

“Bugger,” Hermione said. So much for the comfortable arrangement she had with Sirius. They had not so much as brushed up against one another since their hands were bound, except for when she slapped him for hiding the _Kama Sutra_ inside her copy of _Hogwarts: A History_. She hadn’t even seen him since that Sunday almost three weeks ago.

Dozens more owls soared silently in through the high window, circling the Great Hall and dropping letters before older students. A particularly self-important-looking owl swooped down low and dropped its letter in Hermione’s lap, adding a sharp and disapproving click of its beak for good measure. She could clearly make out the Ministry’s emblem embedded in the wax seal, and she knew this was to do with the amendment and her ‘hasty marriage of convenience’. Her hands actually shook as she opened the letter and began to read the official order from the Department of Marital Duties and Affairs, the date and deadline which they had given her.

The plate before her vanished, taking her uneaten breakfast with it. She did not care; her appetite had gone with the reading of the article. The scroll now resting before her was far more welcome than the now-vanished toast had been, for she knew that looping script anywhere. She tore away the ribbon and read the brief letter, thinking it would be a reassurance not to worry, that the Headmaster had the matter in hand. It did not.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“He wants to meet with me tonight about the amendment,” she said, glumly, slumping in her seat even as cries of joy continued to ring out around her. “I hate Voldemort.”

oOo

At quarter after nine, Hermione trudged the long route from Gryffindor Tower to the Headmaster’s office, dreading what she would hear when she got there. Just as in July, she saw no way around The Bloody Law.

“Come,” Dumbledore spoke, his door opening on its own as she approached. He gestured for her to sit, which she did grudgingly, and offered her tea and a biscuit. Polite formality and ceremony were not what she wanted from the old wizard right now. She wanted answers, promises, something to pin her hopes on since she had nothing of her own anymore. Instead she found herself waiting. Painful seconds ticked past at a spitefully slow rate while the Headmaster said nothing.

Finally the fireplace sputtered, the flames glowing vibrant green and erupting into a very irate Sirius Black. “What the fuck are they playing at?” he demanded, throwing a letter down onto Dumbledore’s desk. Neither of them had to look to know it was a duplicate of the Ministry letter that she had received that morning.

“Calm yourself, Sirius,” Dumbledore soothed.

“I will not calm myself!” he kicked a chair angrily before dropping into it to brood and shout some more. “They’ve given us a deadline. A fucking deadline… _literally!_ ”

Hermione had seen the date printed in the letter, read the day and month so many times that the shock had worn off. They had until the end of the month, midnight on the thirty-first of October, to fulfil their marital obligations. That gave them thirteen days before a Ministry official came knocking at their door to cart them off to Azkaban or to make them to do their duty under duress. It was disgusting, she agreed, though she wasn’t going to start shouting about it. She was far from pleased about the whole thing, but to go ranting and swearing around the Headmaster’s office seemed excessive even to her, the girl who broke every dish in Sirius’s kitchen on their wedding day.

As it was, his vehement protest stirred the lingering feeling of unease left in her from when her front teeth were too large and her hair too wide. She felt as though Sirius’s issue with the amendment lay not in the deadline for fornication but in the person with whom he was forced to do it.

“I have been sending letters to every willing eye at the Ministry since the news arrived this morning, and more than a few unwilling ones, as well,” Dumbledore said to appease the incensed man. “There is nothing they can do, I’m afraid. Any protest you mount will result in a void of your marriage vows and you will both be remanded to Azkaban. Were that to happen, Mrs Black would be as good as Voldemort’s.”

“Bastards,” Sirius spat and looked over at her. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

“Well…” she began and had to stop to keep from squeaking under the intensity of his gaze. “Could we maybe trick them somehow? They have a country filled with newlyweds; surely, they can’t keep track of all of them.”

Sirius looked hopefully to Dumbledore, but the man simply shook his head. “You forget, my dear, that you are the sole reason for this law being passed,” the ancient wizard said. “Since Voldemort could not steal you through marriage to one of his followers, he is now trying to do so through Azkaban. Of all those married under this new law, you are the only two they intend to watch.”

“That is just creepy,” Sirius shivered.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “This is all my fault. You’re right; I should’ve just stayed in school.”

“If you had, I would be dead twice over by now,” he said, ill-timed mirth touching his voice. “I’m not complaining.”

“You were a second ago,” she reminded him, barely managing to contain her bitterness.

“Not about having to marry you, I wasn’t.”

“No,” she agreed. “Just about having to sleep with me.”

He frowned and opened his mouth to protest, but the bored voice of his ancestor filled the room and prevented his rebuttal. “Will you kindly keep your quarrelling in the privacy of your home where it belongs? Blacks do not air their dirty linen in public,” Phineas Nigellus Black lectured and set his hard eyes onto Hermione. “And, much as it sickens me, you are a Black now. Do try to behave as one.”

Instinct or experience had Sirius stepping in before Hermione could speak her mind to the painting or worse. “Shut up,” he told the portrait and turned to Dumbledore. “So what’s left?”

“Nothing,” said the Headmaster.

“What?” Mr and Mrs Black shouted together.

“You always have ideas!” Hermione insisted.

“The Ministry are idiots!” Sirius waved a condescending hand. “There has to be a way around them.”

“Not with Lord Voldemort pulling their strings, I’m afraid,” he shook his head. “Puppets they may be, but puppets with the power to detain you and your wife long enough to see you into the hands of Dementors and her into those of Death Eaters.”

Sirius could not disguise the fear of meeting the Dementors again, but he muttered a curse under his breath all the same.

“Sorry,” Hermione sighed despondently.

“Sirius, would you be so kind as to see your wife safely back to Gryffindor Tower?” Dumbledore requested. “It is past curfew and I have quite a few more things to attend to.”

Hermione was too depressed to bother mentioning that she was a Prefect and, therefore, required no adult supervision to keep her out of trouble with Filch. Although, given the fact that she had rarely been left alone in the castle since Malfoy’s attack in September, she suspected Sirius was there to guard her against more than just the cranky old caretaker. She was nothing but a burden, it seemed. “Sorry,” she muttered again as they walked.

“Stop apologising already,” he growled. “It’s too late to complain anyway.”

“Hasn’t stopped you,” she observed.

“I’m different.”

“That you are,” she agreed. “So what are we going to do?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “What can we do?”

She considered the options, already few and all denied by Dumbledore; if he felt certain they had no remaining choices, then she knew he was right. They had to follow The Bloody Law or everything that had been done so far would have been for nothing. Sirius would be back in Azkaban and she would be under the Imperius Curse, bowing at Voldemort’s feet.

The very idea made her shudder.

“Here,” Sirius said, dropping his jacket onto her shoulders.

Engulfed in warm leather, she looked over at him. Sirius Black, tall and handsome. Standing beside him, wearing his too-large jacket, she felt like a child. She was someone in need of looking after, not someone he wanted. Quite frankly, she didn’t give a damn if Sirius wanted her. Were it not for The Bloody Law, she could have lived the rest of her life without worrying whether Sirius would ever want to sleep with her.

“Stupid Bloody Law,” she snarled.

“No arguments here, pet.”

They were nearing Gryffindor Tower; she could see the staircase that would lead them up to the portrait of the rotund woman who guarded the entrance. They had been walking for nearly fifteen minutes and had made no headway in solving their problem. She stopped, not wanting to discuss their forced sex life in front of the gossipy portrait. “So what happens now?”

“I was aiming to get drunk myself,” Sirius said.

She stamped her foot and winced as she imagined how childish it made her seem. “I’m not joking!”

“Nor am I,” he said, though a smile was pulling at his mouth. “I’ve been known to make some very poor choices when I’m drunk – just ask Remus.”

“I’ll pass.”

He smiled at her reply but managed to force himself back to soberness before he continued, “More than half of the shagging I’ve done was done dead drunk. It’s nothing to be proud of, I know, but it’s the sad fact of the matter.”

“If this is meant to make sense…”

“Hermione,” said the man earnestly, “I’ve slept with my fair share of women, only two of which I thought I might love. I’m not foolish enough to think you’re the same.”

She blushed at the odd compliment he was paying her. “So, your point…?”

“My point,” he smiled, “is that since I’ve slept with so many women I don’t love and was drunk while doing it, if I expect you to sleep with me… I’d better get you pissed beyond reason.”

The girl just stared at him, unsure whether to slap him or laugh. He was being perfectly serious in his proposal, which was oddly considerate of her personal views on sex. She really was not the sort to go sleeping with anyone who looked at her with a passing interest. It was by far the most respectful suggestion he could have made, strange as it was.

“So what do you say?” he grinned. “Next weekend – you, me, a bottle of Ogden’s Finest?”

She snorted. “That is the worst pickup line ever.”

“It worked once,” he defended. “But you’re my wife, I’m not supposed to need any pickup lines for you.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the effort,” she laughed. “And I do. Thank you.”

He smiled and draped an arm over her shoulder as they strolled the rest of the way to Gryffindor Tower. “I’ll see if I can’t find some more appropriate pickup lines for next time,” he promised.

“Good,” she nodded. “I will not have used pickup lines.”

“Perfectly reasonable,” he agreed.

They were standing before the Fat Lady, who looked ready to flee her frame. Sirius had not been particularly gentle with her canvas the last time they met, and she had not yet forgiven him for the trauma she had suffered. “Password?” she asked in a panicked squawk.

“Semper mea,” Hermione said and bit her lip to keep from laughing as the woman threw her frame wide and ran to safety in a portrait too high for Sirius to reach.

“Goodnight,” Hermione said and stepped toward the entrance.

Quicker than thought, Sirius reached out and pulled her against his mouth. It was like their wedding day all over again, his abrupt closing of the gap between them shocking her into compliance. Unlike their wedding day, however, Sirius let his tongue slip over her lips, teasing at the miniscule gap he found there until she let him in. Oh, she had been right to say he was better than Viktor. He was better by far, so much better that she didn’t want him to stop and without meaning to she wrapped her fingers in his hair to keep him from escaping.

Despite her valiant efforts, Sirius pulled back and whispered against her lips. “Goodnight, pet.”

“Mm-hm,” she said and stood stunned on the spot as he left.

“Oh my _god_!” Lavender squealed and ran from her hiding place in the shadows. “That was the hottest thing ever! I just left Michael and he didn’t even kiss me at all, let alone snog me senseless. I’m so jealous. You are _so_ lucky!”

The giddy girl’s words and presence sent Hermione’s dazed dreaminess falling to the floor, and she blinked back to a very disappointing reality. She knew now he only kissed her like that because the other girl had been watching. It was a matter of keeping up appearance, maintaining the illusion.

“Yeah,” Hermione sighed dejectedly. “Lucky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I survived one full week of full-time teachertude! There were no deaths, no blood, only a little vomit and just one potty accident. WIN!


	15. Limited Time Only

As Friday evening and Hermione’s departure time ticked ever nearer, Lavender took to sitting with the girl in the common room. And in the library. And at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. She whispered all manner of encouragements and suggestions; most were ridiculously sentimental, though occasionally they bordered on obscenely vulgar.

“Another thing I once read in a magazine—“ Lavender began.

Hermione snapped her book shut. “Excuse me, I need to get a different book,” she said abruptly and stood, walking as quickly as she could toward the stairs to the girls’ dormitories. She wanted to scream, to cry, to throw something, anything to get the anger and resentment out of her system before she had to face Sirius. None of this was his fault and she refused to take it out on him or his property as she had after their wedding.

A knock came at the door and Ginny popped her head in before Hermione could respond. “What are you doing?”

“Just getting a new book,” she said hurriedly, flushing as she dropped down before her bookcase, certain her friend could see through the lie. She dug through her books looking for something to occupy her in the remaining free hours of the afternoon. She had run out of homework to do and textbooks to read, yet she still had two more hours to fill before her final class of the day. Her fingers touched on a familiar cover, a book she read often and enjoyed. It was a Muggle book, but it held some strange sort of magic for her. She tore it from the shelf and dropped onto her bed to read.

“Didn’t you just finish that one?” Ginny questioned.

“What? I love this book,” Hermione insisted. Opening the cover, she groaned and slammed it shut again.

“Another one?” Ginny asked, her face schooled into polite curiosity though her eyes were burning with glee.

“How does he keep doing that?” she complained and slapped the book down onto her duvet. “I checked them all, but I keep finding more sex manuals.”

“Maybe he sneaks in every few days,” suggested her friend. “He knows the secret passages from the village, and it isn’t hard to find out the password from some of the first years.”

Hermione shook her head. Admittedly, she was no expert when it came to her husband’s habits, but she knew that Sirius had enough cunning and self-respect to keep him from slipping in to alter the contents of her books just to make her blush. He might have done it once after seeing her reaction to the _Kama Sutra_ , but to continually do it… no, definitely not.

“He’s probably added a calendar charm to them or something,” Ginny said. “When it reaches a certain date, they shift from one book to the other so you’ll be surprised.”

“I’m surprised all right,” she agreed only half-sarcastically. “It’s bad enough I have Lavender on me about my sex life, I don’t need my favourite books reminding me, too.”

Ginny paused, taking a moment to consider her approach. “Hermione… about this weekend… I got you a present.” She pulled a shopping bag from behind her back. The brown paper bag was innocuous, offering no shop logo or brand name. “Fred and George chipped in, but don’t worry, they’ve no idea what they helped me buy. I can’t imagine the fallout if they knew I was in this sort of store.”

A slight unease filled her. What sort of gift would Ginny need extra money for? What sort of gift would she not want her brothers to know about? Not certain she really wanted to look, Hermione took the offered bag and opened it. Words escaped her as she stared in horrified fascination at the ridiculously girly bits of lace and ribbons Ginny had bought for her.

“It’s a belated wedding gift,” the girl said.

“ _That_ is for _me_?” Hermione managed to say.

“Well, it’s probably more for Sirius, but yes.”

Hermione tried to picture herself in… _that_. The bushy-haired, buck-toothed, know-it-all wearing such sexy lingerie. It was laughable.

“You don’t have to wear it,” Ginny insisted. “Just take it with you. You never know…”

“I do know,” she said, crinkling the top of the bag tightly shut.

Ginny eyed her like a psychiatrist studying a traumatised patient. “Hermione,” she said slowly and sat worryingly close to her on the bed. Hermione felt like she was reliving the mortifying afternoon when her mother sat down beside her on the bed to explain what sex was. Considering how much she read, it was no surprise that at ten years old she already knew the scientific theory behind sex, complete with accurate anatomical diagrams of reproductive organs, but to have her _mother_ trying to explain it in awkward pauses and flowery euphemisms turned it from a basic human function into something embarrassing.

That was still how she felt about sex; it was something people did quietly and ought never to discuss publicly.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Hermione said flatly.

“I think you need to.”

“No, I don’t,” she said with as much finality as she could muster. “I’m going over there; we’re getting drunk and getting it over with.”

Ginny all but growled. “Is that really how you want your first time to go? I mean, sure, you wouldn’t be the first girl in the world to lose her virginity to too much drink, but that is not the sort of thing you arrange in advance!”

“What else can I do?” Hermione cried. “I don’t love him; he certainly doesn’t love me.”

“Have you tried?”

“Tried what?”

“Have you tried to love him?” Ginny asked. “He’s a great bloke. From my point of view, he’s got everything you could ever want. He’s even properly clever.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yeah, so clever he managed to get framed for murder by an idiot like Pettigrew.”

“Don’t change the subject,” she snapped. “Sirius is perfect for you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Hermione hedged. “But even if he were perfect, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” Ginny soothed. “You just need a little more knowledge and confidence in the bedroom. Maybe that’s why he’s been transfiguring your books.”

“He’s been doing that for a laugh since before the amendment,” she replied flatly. “It’s nothing to do with us really having sex.”

Ginny grinned. “Are you sure?”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably on her bed. She really did not know why Sirius had decided to hide all those manuals and treatises inside her books – her most often read books at that, ones she was certain to stumble across frequently. The idea had clearly come to him early in the arrangement since he had bought them months before The Bloody Amendment was passed. Her mouth fell open as she remembered that one of the items on his list of things he enjoyed about married life, though it had been a false boast to shut James up, was that he got his shags. Had he intended to sleep with her all along?

“See,” Ginny said smugly, as if she knew precisely what her friend was thinking. “Now, you are going to take my present with you and you are _not_ going to get pissed and shag like some cheap slag.”

“It would make it easier,” Hermione grumbled as she shoved the lacy under-things to the very bottom of her weekend bag.

“And since when have you been the sort to take the easy route?”

Hermione glanced over at the younger girl, noting with mixed feelings her crossed arms and raised eyebrow. Pride of accomplishment was second only to queasiness as she considered the compliment and challenge that Ginny was laying before her. True, she rarely went for the common path, electing to attend a magical school when her parents begged her to matriculate somewhere normal, to study something they understood, even offering to send her to the most prestigious and expensive school in the region. She stuck to her persistent bossy, know-it-all mannerisms even when she was left friendless because of it. She butted heads with her own best friends when their actions were too stupid or placed them in too much danger. No, Hermione Jean Granger had never elected to walk the easier path, so why should Hermione Jean Black be any different?

Besides, she reasoned, Sirius had managed to get them both absolutely, blind, stupid drunk on their wedding night and nothing had happened outside her removing her own garter. The portrait of James Potter had informed her, with a highly offended and dissatisfied air, that the pair had cuddled and giggled but not so much as a kiss had been shared between them. With her luck running as it was, they would get smashed and do the same all over again, leaving them both in Azkaban because the deadline had run out while they were hanging their heads in their respective toilets.

“I hate Voldemort,” she sighed.

“Should I take that as an agreement?” Ginny grinned.

“Yes,” replied Hermione curtly, throwing her book into the bag. “Sirius had better be able to turn that back the way it was.”

Ginny just kept grinning and left Hermione alone to finish packing, which she did in record time, leaving her with another hour before Arithmancy. Sirius had managed to sneak his manuals into all her favourite books, so she had nothing but sex to read. While she would be loathed to admit it to him or anyone, she had read a few of the books he had magically added to her collection. After the graphic depictions of sex in the _Kama Sutra_ , the other books she stumbled on were far less shocking and carried information that she actually found interesting. She had particularly enjoyed Tara Tember’s work on why so-called love potions were incapable of forcing true amorous feelings in the drinker.

Since no one was around to catch her, she picked up _Hogwarts: A History_ and started reading it again. She whiled away thirty minutes, most of which was spent with her head on sideways, wondering if the human body was truly capable of such contortions, before pushing the book into her overburdened suitcase and rushing off to class.

Annoyingly, Professor Vector assigned a page of calculations that Hermione had already completed on her own, so she had nothing to keep her focused in class and ended up running through all the potential scenarios that might present themselves in a few hours’ time. None of them seemed likely and all of them featured a Hermione that was far more attractive than she really was. Realising how foolish it was to daydream like this, she turned to the last chapter of the book and found the most complicated calculation to occupy her brain.

“Most impressive, Mrs Black,” Vector commented as she passed. “I should think you’ll be teaching this course before long. No homework necessary for you, then.”

“Oh, no, professor,” she fretted. “Isn’t there anything more advanced I could practice on?”

“I’ll see what I can find for next time,” the woman smiled and continued on down the row.

Hermione slumped in her chair. She had been looking forward to having some homework to keep her busy for at least part of the weekend. Now how was she supposed to avoid Sirius? Lying seemed a reasonable option except that she suspected, being a natural-born troublemaker, he would easily see through any fabrication she might concoct.

‘Serves you right for doing all your work so quickly,’ she scolded herself. ‘Now you’ve no choice but to spend time with him.’ It was true, she really ought to have known better than to do all her homework when she knew she would need something to keep her away from Sirius over the weekend. She couldn’t even fall back on her books because Sirius would see her reading and know what was really behind the innocent covers.

‘Git,’ she snarled at him, though he was hundreds of miles away and unaware that she was cursing him. ‘Couldn’t just leave my things alone, could you? Had to go making fun of me.’

She paused to consider Ginny’s earlier suggestion, wondering if perhaps Sirius had really intended to sleep with her since their marriage had been arranged. It seemed unlikely. He had never shown any great affection toward her prior to their engagement, and afterward he treated her no differently. He had never insinuated or suggested or even flat out demanded anything. His hands had never wandered. He only ever kissed her when it was required. All he had done was given her something to read.

‘Maybe he wants me to be like my books, all academic on the outside but sexy on the inside,’ she thought, her eyes growing wide before she shook the thought away. ‘Or maybe he’s a git that loves making me miserable.’

She paused, ‘Am I miserable, though?’

Yes, she rather thought she was. She stared down at her book for a time, considering the source of her anger and agitation, knowing that no matter how hard she tried Sirius would never be the one at fault. Sneaky sex books notwithstanding, his actions to date had cast him in nothing but a favourable light. He was fine.

‘He _is_ fine,’ she found herself thinking, some portion of her brain had clearly been affected by Lavender’s suggestions and Ginny’s needling.

‘That is my husband you are talking about!’ Hermione protested vehemently and cringed immediately. She was yelling at herself for finding her husband attractive. The Bloody Law was driving her round the bend. That’s all there was to it. Even if it meant a portkey directly to Sirius’s bedroom, the end of class could not come quick enough after this miniature mental breakdown.


	16. Friday Night

She took a deep breath, gripped his arm and waited for it to be over. The barely audible ‘pop’ came to her ears and she felt the uncomfortable squeezing sensation before another ‘pop’ signalled their arrival.

“Let’s go quickly,” he said, still keeping his wand at the ready and a hand hovering inches from her back. Hermione hurried up the steps and into Number 12, Grimmauld Place flanked by Remus and Tonks. It felt like the secretive summer before fifth year all over again.

“Welcome back!” James cried as soon as the door shut behind them. “I’ve been waiting all week for you!”

“Thank you, but why?” she questioned.

James just grinned and let his eyes glitter with unrestrained glee.

“Is he all right?” she whispered to Remus.

“He’s fine,” the man assured her. “And even if he wasn’t, he’s a painting.”

“Oi! I may be a painting but I can still hear you, Moony!” James sent a rude gesture at his old friend and stomped out of his frame.

“He’s been like that all week,” Sirius informed them with a sad shake of his head.

For all the consideration she had given this weekend, Hermione found herself incapable of thought, action or speech when presented with her husband. Sirius was leaning casually against the wall, doing nothing that should leave her so addlepated, yet her brain had stuttered to a stop, failing to send a message to her feet until Tonks bumped her forward ostensibly by accident.

“Dinner ready?” the woman asked eagerly.

Sirius smiled. “My infamous Drunken Shepherd’s Pie is ready when you are.”

An excited trilling escaped Tonks and she rushed past him to claim her seat at the table.

“You cooked?” Remus asked, disbelief and concern thick in his voice.

“Drunken Shepard’s Pie is something even I can’t cock up, Moony.”  Sirius shrugged, “Besides, Kreacher’s been a bit off since the wedding.” He offered no further information or verbal sympathy for the creature that had nearly killed him, but the fact that Sirius had even noticed a change in his servant, that he was cooking for himself rather than forcing the house-elf to do it when he was unwell spoke volumes to Hermione.

She followed Remus through to the kitchen and sat down in the only remaining chair, which happened to be situated very close to Sirius. She found the shrinking of the table and placement of the chairs highly suspect, but refused to start the weekend off on the wrong foot.

Sirius nudged her arm. “I told you,” he whispered and nodded across the table.

She followed his subtle gesture, watching as Tonks edged her chair closer to a blushing Remus and her arm disappeared beneath the table to rest on the man’s thigh. It was the first time Hermione had seen them interacting privately. She wondered if Tonks flirted with him so shamelessly at the wedding, too. Even as she watched, Remus turned to look at the woman beside him. They didn’t say anything. Apparently, they didn’t have to. Their eyes locked for several long seconds and Hermione knew they were in love. They were as different as was humanly possible; they might try to fight it with reason and numbers, but still they loved each other.

“A werewolf and a shape-shifter… can you imagine their children?” Sirius whispered against her ear, making her smile even as she shook her head. He cleared his throat loudly, breaking Tonks and Remus up before they started snogging at the dinner table. “So, Moony, how’s the book coming?”

Remus tore his eyes away from the woman beside him and refocused his attention. “Slowly. Very slowly.”

“Book?” Hermione asked.

“We’ve managed to talk good Professor Lupin here into writing a book on werewolves,” Sirius said.

“Really?” she smiled. “That’s brilliant! You wouldn’t believe some of the rubbish they’ve published. I was in Flourish and Blotts over the summer and the number of properly useful books they have on lycanthropy was pitiful… but I suspect you would know that already.”

Remus nodded and smiled in his usual mild and amused way. “I had noticed,” he admitted. “It also makes the likelihood of getting published anything I might write pretty slim.”

“Don’t start that again,” Sirius warned. “Same old arguments again and again. I’m rich, dammit. I’ll buy a printing house if I have to.”

“Show off,” Hermione muttered, making Tonks and Remus laugh.

“Oi! No laughing at me in my own house! That was Rule Number Two.”

Their laughter filled the kitchen, lifting the remainder of unease that still clung to Hermione’s shoulders. He glowered at her, but she could tell it was an act.

“Lovely shepherd’s pie,” she commented.

“Oh, now you’re just patronising me.”

She gasped theatrically. “I would never dream of patronising a man like you!”

He sniffed and scowled, “Swot.”

“Git.”

“Cut it out, you two,” Remus ordered.

Grinning, Hermione turned her attention back to her dinner, which really was lovely. She was no slouch in the kitchen provided she had a recipe to follow, but if this was any indication of the man’s cooking prowess then she would gladly hand over the apron and spatula to him.

“Ooh,” Tonks cried excitedly. “I just remembered. Hermione, has Ginny given you that belated wedding present yet?”

Her eyes grew enormous. She tried to force them to a reasonable, non-dear-in-headlamps size, but they remained huge. How she wished she could send her thoughts across the table to the woman, tell her to stop talking about such things. The last thing she wanted was for Sirius to know about the ridiculous under-things she had no intention of wearing.

“Present?” Sirius asked.

Tonks nodded. “Well, I helped her pick it out and bought you something to go with it. I’ll give it to you later.”

Sirius frowned and looked between the two female diners, perhaps thinking that if he studied their faces long enough more information might spontaneously appear before him. “What present?”

“Nothing,” they said together.

“It’s clearly something,” he said. “What is it? Why am I not involved?”

“Maybe because you’re acting like an infant,” Tonks offered.

“Am not.”

The woman responded by making her nose into a snout and sticking her tongue out at him.

Light-hearted as the argument that followed was, Hermione’s mood darkened again and she lost her appetite. All she could do for the rest of dinner was push the remainder of the pie around her plate. If they noticed, no one chose to say anything.

“Tea?” Remus asked.

“I’ll have some,” Tonks said. “Leave it in the pot for me, I’m going to take Hermione upstairs for just a minute.” She hurried around the table, grabbed the girl and ran from the kitchen before either of the men might protest. She spirited Hermione up the stairs and into the girl’s bedroom, locking, warding and silencing the door before rounding on her. “Presents!”

Tonks climbed under the bed to pull out a shopping bag identical to the one Ginny had given her. The seemingly innocent brown paper no longer fooled her; she knew what sort of low-cut lacy things were likely hidden inside.

“You really didn’t have to,” she said, but her weak protest was lost in the woman’s eager explanation of deciding what colour would best suit her.

“Ginny just wanted to go Gryffindor scarlet all the way, but I didn’t think that was quite right,” the woman said. “I mean, that’s a pretty bold colour – not that you aren’t bold – but in terms of lingerie, that just isn’t right for you. Besides, you’re practically a Ravenclaw, so I figure blue is way better for you. It took some doing, but Ginny finally saw reason.”

Hermione dropped onto the bed, certain this would be a long story, “Did she?”

“I’m quite convincing when I want to be, you know,” she said proudly. “But then we couldn’t decide on the cut. We went to three different shops and still couldn’t decide! How do Muggles do it when they can’t just transfigure stuff?”

She stopped listening. Her head nodded and her mouth offered ‘hm’s at appropriate intervals, but she had no idea what the woman was still talking about, just that it resulted in her being given a set of lacy garters and seamed stocking that she had no intention of wearing for anyone, ever. Her brain was still on autopilot well after Tonks left her, and she wanted to keep it that way.  It was a rare and precious moment when her brain would finally shut down and allow her not to think, and she had quite a lot lately that she would dearly love to _not_ think about, not the least of which was the ridiculous undergarments Ginny and Tonks decided she needed. She intended to enjoy every blissful moment of vacancy before the reality of the deadline returned to her.

After several hours staring at a stain on the carpet that looked simultaneously like a water buffalo and a seahorse depending on how she turned her head, her stomach drew her back to conscious thought. Frowning, she trudged down the stairs. The house was dark; it must have been so late in the evening that it was already Saturday as Sirius rarely went to bed before midnight when he had guests over. Her frown deepened as she wondered when and where that particular bit of trivia had been stored away, for she had never gone out of her way to learn Sirius’ sleeping habits.

Pushing open the kitchen door, she staggered to a standstill. The light was on and someone was rummaging in the icebox. She took a tentative step closer, “Hello?”

“Ah, Hermione,” Remus said as he stepped around the still-open door of the icebox.

She gaped at the mass of food in his arms. “How are you possibly that hungry?”

“Full moon’s tomorrow,” he shrugged.

“Oh.”

Taking his place at the open icebox, she stared at the shelves for something appetising and settled for a roast chicken.

“So… how are things?” he asked vaguely.

“How do you think?” she replied darkly, throwing the roasted chicken onto the counter and carving it up as she wished she could the weak-minded Ministry workers who had been duped into passing such an abomination.

“Not well, I’m guessing,” he muttered. “Has the chicken offended you?”

She glanced down and saw that she had stabbed the bird in the chest. “This whole situation keeps getting worse. It’s bad enough being forced to marry, but…” She growled and tore the knife from the carcass.

“Hermione,” he said gently. “You are a brilliant witch. Surely, you can see the necessity in this.”

“I do…” she sighed. “It’s just that I haven’t ever… And this isn’t exactly something I could master from a book, now, is it?”

He nervously rubbed at the back of his neck and blushed. “You’d be surprised.”

After a moment of consideration, she discovered that she had learned quite a bit from the books Sirius had cheekily spelled onto her bookshelves. Still, this was more like flying a broom than Herbology; simply reading the book would only get her so far.

“Look,” Remus said once his mild embarrassment had subsided. “Think of it as another subject you need to learn. When it comes to this particular subject, I suspect you’d be hard-pressed to find a teacher better than Sirius. He’s spent more than his fair share of time in the bedroom.”

“Are you implying that I’m cheap, Moony?” Sirius demanded as he entered the kitchen. His voice was hard but there was a smile pulling at his mouth.

Remus shook his head. “No one would ever dare call you a cheap date. I recall one Silvia Dunn, who seventh year spent a fortune buying you a leather jacket for Christmas just to get your attention. Poor girl.”

“Poor girl?” Sirius repeated, scandalised. “Poor me! She slathered that thing with a lust draught. I couldn’t think straight for a month!”

Hermione laughed. There were a few girls at Hogwarts she could imagine pulling such a stunt.

“No laughing at me in my own house, dammit,” he glared at them both. “Just for that, you owe me a sandwich.” He slapped his hand down on the counter as if he were the Supreme Mugwump himself.

“Which of us might that be?” Remus asked.

“Both!”

“Well, now you’re just being silly.”

“My house, my rules. You laugh at me, I get a sandwich,” his fierce declaration might have held more sway had his face not cracked open in a yawn midway through.

Remus shook his head. “Maybe you should go to sleep instead.”

“That sounds like a better plan,” he agreed. “Plenty of room if anyone gets cold in the night.” With his strange offer hanging in the air, he glanced at Hermione and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have survived 32 days of being a teacher, a ridonk portion of which has been spent sitting through trainings too boring to be permitted (seriously, I have five years of undergrad and nearly two for a master's under my belt and I have NEVER suffered through classes as boring as these). The paperwork and dumbf*ckery of being part of a grant program is going to kill me, but the kids are great!


	17. On Knickers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which underwear is contemplated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of the first day of autumn and the fact that it actually FEELS like the first day of autumn down here in the South, I bring you another chapter! My having been deathly silent for about a month there might also have something to do with another update, but whatevs.

‘Just go in!’ Hermione shouted at herself.

Her hand was poised on the doorknob to Sirius’s room, but, no matter how much she yelled, begged, bribed or reasoned with herself, her hand could not be made to turn it. This was her fifth attempt, and, as with the previous four, she pulled her hand away from the door and ran silently back to her own bedroom.

“Just go in!” she whispered furiously at herself. “Grab, turn, push. It’s not complicated! He’s probably asleep. He’ll never even know you’re there until morning.” She looked at the clock; it was five o’clock. “It is morning. He’ll be up soon.”

Unsure whether the approaching dawn was beneficial or detrimental to her argument, she started pacing her room. Sirius would not have made the offer if he had not wanted her to come, but he had clearly been half-asleep and slightly drunk when he said it. So there was a chance the words came out without his even realising it. Though, if they were coming directly from his semi-conscious brain, would that not make the offer more credible? By the time she decided that he really had meant his offer to share his bed for the night, it was after six and hazy predawn light was just starting to peek above the skyline.

She squared her shoulders and set her face to maximum determination. “Last chance, Hermione.”

Opening her door, she marched down the hall to his room, grasped the antique brass doorknob and turned it before she had the chance to second-guess her actions. She pushed the door open a fraction and peered inside. The room was heavy with long shadows, but after a moment she managed to decipher the furniture from the floor; Sirius rolling over helped considerably in determining where the bed was.

As he shifted in his sleep, rolling into a patch of sun and groaning when it hit his eyes, Hermione panicked. ‘He has no shirt on,’ her brain screamed and she all but slammed the door. ‘No shirt. What if there are no pants? What if he’s naked?’

She ran for the last time back to her room and buried herself in the suffocating and heavy layers of her bed to make up for all those that Sirius was lacking. Hidden beneath the unbearably warm blankets, she tried to imagine what would have happened if she had not spent hours fearfully pacing before being able to approach his room, if she had actually managed to open the door the first time she faced it five hours earlier. Would Sirius have been awake? Would he have been expecting her? Would he have been naked?

“I can’t do this,” she groaned and squashed the pillow down over her head, clenched her eyes shut and let sleep finally take her.

“FOUND HER!” someone bellowed from inside her room, startling the poor girl awake.

Footsteps pounded down the hallway and her door flew open. “Where is she?” Tonks demanded.

“There,” James said.

“Who?” Hermione asked.

“You!” Tonks replied and pulled her up into a painful embrace. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

When she finally released her, Hermione squinted against the bright light of the morning, trying to see the woman’s face. “Where else would I be?”

“With Sirius,” she said as if it were obvious. “But he said he woke up alone. We didn’t see you under all the covers, so we thought you might have panicked and run off. Sirius and Remus are out scouring the whole of London looking for you.”

“That is just ridiculous,” the girl told her and dropped back onto her pillow. She waited for Tonks to go on, but silence followed. The woman’s eyes burned into her and Hermione wished she would say something rather than just stare at her.

“So what happened?” Tonks asked after her scrutiny failed to provide her with adequate information. “You obviously didn’t make it to Sirius’s room last night.”

“I did so,” Hermione insisted. “I just didn’t make it through the door.”

The woman laughed.

“What? I just… You’re right; I panicked.”

“Thought so,” Tonks said and pulled her back up to sitting just so she could wrap the girl in another tight hug, this one far more comforting than the first.

Hermione buried her face in the woman’s shoulder. “I never really thought about what it would be like – my first time – but I never imagined it would be mandated under threat of imprisonment.”

“Damn,” James muttered. “How are you that freakishly articulate as soon as you wake up?”

She breathed a dark laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“We’re going to have to contact the boys,” Tonks said. “They could be anywhere by now. I think Sirius might’ve gone to Oxford thinking you were hiding there.”

“What?” she asked. “How would I have even gotten that far? I can’t even Apparate yet.”

Tonks looked at her sideways. “If anybody could, it would be you.”

Hermione clicked her tongue. It was praise and she should appreciate it, but she was stuck on the ludicrous notion of Remus and Sirius running the length and breadth of England searching for her when she was in her bed just three doors away from Sirius. “What are they panicking over, anyway?”

“You really don’t know?” This time it was James who looked at her sideways.  “He’ll be extremely angry at me for telling you this…” the portrait said, stepping as close to her as the placement of the framed canvas would allow and whispering, “Sirius is feeling a little insecure right now.”

Hermione snorted. “Sirius doesn’t do insecure.”

“Uh, yeah, he does,” the man said as if she were an idiot. “You turned him down for sex… that is massive blow to ego stuff, that is.”

“Nonsense.”

James laughed derisively. “Aren’t you supposed to be clever?”

Hermione pushed herself away from Tonks and glared hard at him.

“Allow me to translate your rejection into simple terms you will understand,” he said, clearing his throat and continuing in a loud, clear voice. “Ministry says, ‘Have sex or you go to Azkaban’. Sirius offers you his bed for the night, i.e.: sex, and you fail to show up. What this means is that you would sooner go to Azkaban and be handed over to Voldemort before you would sleep with Sirius.”

Her eyes narrowed as she considered James and his assertions. He wasn’t smirking and his eyes held none of his usual mischief, but she could not for one millisecond believe that what he said was true. There was no way that Sirius would take her virginal and self-conscious fears as anything but what they truly were. “Nonsense,” she repeated.

“You are officially an idiot,” James informed her. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go find my wife and tell everyone to stop looking since the idiot’s been found.”

Hermione turned to Tonks, expecting the woman to tell her much the same thing, but she just glittered with excitement as she had the night before.

“What?” the girl asked nervously.

“I have an idea,” she said and bit down on her lip to keep herself from trilling. “Maybe if you felt sexier it would be easier. I remember my first try was so embarrassing, but the next time round I felt like one sexy minx and it made everything so much better.”

“Your first time was embarrassing?” Hermione asked. Oddly, she had never thought to talk to Tonks about her situation. The woman was more experienced than Ginny, so she would be capable of offering more realistic advice without sounding too much like her mother or Mrs Weasley.

“Oh my god, _so_ embarrassing!” she covered her face and groaned. “It was a sixth year boy who shall remain nameless; I had a crush on him for months even though I was a year ahead of him. We got together at the Halloween Feast and ran away to hide in his dorm. We spent an hour snogging and fumbling with each other’s clothes. Finally, I was completely naked, lying on his bed…” she paused to shake her head at the memory, “and he threw up at the sight of me!”

Hermione’s face fell, “You’re joking.”

She shook her head again. “Ran from the room with his pants round his ankles. It took him a month to convince me to give him another go.”

“What happened?”

“My friend, Portia, had gotten it in my head that I was a sex goddess to have made him react like that, so I went in there feeling like I could do no wrong,” Tonks laughed at her foolishness. “It was stupid, but it worked. He didn’t throw up and we were at it for hours. Not the best I’ve ever had, but certainly the most memorable.”

“Oh,” Hermione said. She wasn’t quite sure that the woman’s story pertained to her situation exactly, but she was willing to hear her out. “And your idea?”

“Since you probably won’t believe me if I tell you that you’re a sex goddess, you need something else to make you feel that way. The wedding presents Ginny and I gave you,” she said with a grin. “Wear them.”

Her eyes grew enormous at the thought of walking around in such things. “No, I don’t think I can.”

“Hermione, they’re just knickers.”

“Made almost entirely of lace, with bits of ribbons and things,” she shook her head. “They aren’t me. I’m…sensible.”

“Well, fine,” Tonks sighed. “Then I’m out of ideas. What works for me, clearly won’t work for you.”

“I appreciate the effort. Really,” Hermione said. Tonks just nodded and went back down the stairs, no doubt to send word to Sirius and Remus that Hermione was safe and sound. Alone again, Hermione started to feel guilty that she was not taking her friend’s suggestion more seriously. Despite being completely off the mark for what Hermione would willing wear beneath her clothes, Tonks and Ginny had put forth considerable time, thought and money into buying the undergarments for her.

She dug down into the bottom of her suitcase and pulled Ginny’s gift out, laying it on the bed and looking at it with real consideration for the first time. As far as knickers went, they certainly were not the worst she had ever seen. They were quite pretty and covered all the bits she would wish to have covered. It was the sheerness of the lace that really bothered her.

“Oh, just try them on already,” Lily said, exasperated.

Hermione shrieked and spun around. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to see you run through your mental pro-con list of wearing lacy knickers,” the woman said as a smile overtook her stern face. “From the looks of it, the pros were winning. Am I right? I’m right.”

“Maybe,” the girl glowered. “But the cons are weighted considerably by embarrassment.”

“What’s so embarrassing? They’re knickers. They’re made of lace. So what?” Lily demanded. “For my first night, I would much rather wear something special than my boring, everyday knickers and underwire. Actually, I believe I had something special for every night of the honeymoon. James loved it.”

Hermione breathed out a quiet laugh. “Ginny did say it was more a present for Sirius…”

“And she was right,” Lily said. “But I’m guessing you’ve never had any special undergarments. They go a long way into preparing you mentally. Just go put them on. You’ll see.” She strolled from the frame, humming a smug tune.

Every female she dared to ask insisted that such knickers were perfectly acceptable. More than acceptable, they were necessary. She frowned and pushed them into the pocket of her dressing gown along with a pair of regular underwear. After a rushed shower, she put on her familiar and comfortable cotton underwear, fully intent on wrapping herself in the dressing gown and returning to her bedroom to dress.  She knew, though, that she had to give the advice a chance and took her regular skivvies off.

The ribbons adorning the pants made perfect sense; their satin covered the elastic to keep it from pinching her skin as she slid the garment up her legs.

So that was one mark against the knickers gone.

Considering herself in the mirror, she was surprised to see that the cut was not at all embarrassing. Okay, so they revealed more skin than she was accustomed to showing, but she would happily have tolerated them if they were made of solid cotton.

There went a second of her complaints.

The lace, though, was still a bit of a sticking point. She could find no reason to like it and refused to budge on her displeasure in it. Unfortunately, the con list was now two items short. Moreover, the pro list was lengthened by one more point. She had to concede that the underwear did actually make her feel pretty and that she was wearing something special. Wrapped in her dressing gown, a feeling of excitement was added to the mix. No one knew what sort of knickers she was wearing. She had a sexy, lacy secret that only she knew. Tonks and Ginny and Lily had encouraged her, but they could not know what was against her skin.

Back in her room, she gave the additional gifts their fair consideration.

“Definitely not,” she decided and set everything else into the innocent brown bag. She threw on one of her normal, everyday white bras and frowned down at herself.

They didn’t match.

Few people knew that Hermione’s obsessive organisation translated even to coordinating unmentionables. Seeing the white bra and blue lace panties shouting their inequity of style and luxury was too much. She took the bra off, threw it into her suitcase and tore the matching lace bodice from the shopping bag. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she sighed and fastened the many hooks.


	18. Presumptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm totally making up for lost time, but I think after this I'm back to my usual once a week update each Thursday.

Hermione shifted her shoulders and hips; anyone observing her might think she dancing in slow motion to a tune only she heard, but really she was feeling the foreign undergarments beneath her jeans and jumper. Despite the normal appearance of her clothes, they felt strange. Every time she moved, she could tell there was something different.

“They were right,” Hermione admitted quietly to the empty kitchen.

It was true what Lily and Tonks had said. She did feel special. She did feel pretty. Though not even a lace bodice could make her feel sexy.

“Two out three is still pretty good,” she conceded and gave one last shimmy before dropping into a chair with her buttered toast and cup of tea. She ate alone since Tonks had yet to return from hunting down Sirius and Remus. Considering how little Hermione knew about London, she was surprised they would have even considered the possibility of her running off into the city. Foolish idea, really.

“Hermione?” Remus called.

“In the kitchen!” the girl shouted back.

She heard feet slamming hard on the floor as he ran from the entrance hall to the kitchen. Thank goodness Walburga had been removed otherwise they would have had quite the time shutting her up. Remus threw the kitchen door wide and stormed into the room, lifting her from her chair and pulling her into a hug. “Don’t you ever scare us like that again!” he ordered.

“Okay,” she agreed, though the misunderstanding was hardly her fault. She had been asleep in her bed, exactly where she belonged. How was it her fault that they hadn’t bothered pulling the blankets up to look if she was there or not?

“We were so—“ his words died as his hand pressed against her back. It froze like the words in his mouth and she knew that he could feel the metal ribs of the bodice beneath her jumper.

He knew.

He pulled back quickly, his eyes focused with absolute determination on a point somewhere to the left of her head. His cheeks were a rosy pink that she suspected had nothing to do with his just running in from the brisk autumn morning. The girl had to bite her lip at his embarrassment, though, surprisingly, she felt little of her own.

“What’s the matter, Moony?” Sirius asked.

“Nothing!” the man said quickly. “I’m happy you’re safe and I’m going to go now.” He spun around and fled.

Sirius’s eyes followed the retreating werewolf before he turned back to Hermione. He did not look pleased. “Nice of you to join us,” he bit out the words with a barely supressed sneer. She watched him cross the room to the icebox, tension obvious in his shoulders. As he leaned against the counter, a bottle of beer in his hand, he continued, “I thought you said you would leave a note next time.”

“Yes, and I will when I go somewhere,” she said, annoyance colouring her voice. “But since I didn’t go anywhere, I don’t see why you’re angry.”

“I woke up alone.”

“So?”

“I should have woken up with you,” he practically shouted, slamming the bottle down. “What am I supposed to think when I wake up alone after offering my bed to you?”

She glared at him, trying with all her might to set his hair ablaze with her anger. “Of all the presumptuous--” she huffed. “It takes more than some drowsy, half-drunk suggestion to get me into bed, Sirius.”

“Apparently,” he agreed sarcastically. “Even with Azkaban coming ever closer, you’d rather hide in your room like a frightened rabbit.”

“I’m a virgin, you bastard!” she slapped him across the face with enough force to snap his head to the side. “I’m allowed to be nervous!”

He clenched his jaw, clearly fighting the desire to return the physical blow. “You’re supposed to be clever, too.”

“You are absolutely insufferable,” she declared or at least she tried to. It was difficult to speak when his lips were crushed against hers. His tongue forced its way into her mouth and was bringing all his spite and fervent anger with it. So far as kisses went, this was by far the most pleasurable she had ever had, which only made her more irate. She wanted to kiss him back, to put all her animosity into him as he was into her, but she knew that was what he wanted. He would feed on her rage, tease it into desire and without any effort, they would be naked together in the throes of exhilaratingly fierce sex. No doubt it would be the greatest she would ever experience, but that was not how her first time was meant to be.

With monumental force of will, she untangled her fingers from his hair and pushed at his chest, but he only leaned farther into her, tilting her head back and deepening the kiss.

‘Not good,’ she thought and searched desperately for a way to break the kiss, for she knew there was no way he would stop on his own. Cringing at how furious it would make him, she resorted to the only method she knew that would guarantee results. She jerked her knee up with as much velocity as she could, hitting the mark with painful accuracy.

“ _Fuck_!” Sirius wheezed as he fell to the floor, bent double and clutching his groin. “fucking… ow… fuck…”

“You are a pig!” she shouted and ran from the room, slamming first the kitchen door then the one to her bedroom.

Several minutes passed with her crouched behind her bed, wand ready and eyes fixed on her door, just waiting for him to come barrelling through cursing and hexing her, but her strained ears caught the slamming of the front door and a loud ‘crack’.  Sirius must have been angry if he was making such a loud noise as he Disapparated; he normally disappeared with virtually zero noise signalling his departure. Again she frowned, wondering when she had noticed precisely how loud his Apparitions were. Strange the information she squirreled away without realising.

“That did not go well,” she sighed.

No one came into her room for the rest of the morning, not even Lily or James. She caught the tidy black hair and curious grey eyes of Regulus peeking around the frame of the landscape painting that hung in her bedroom, but he said nothing and left before she could say anything. She couldn’t imagine what he had come to see. She was sitting on her bed reading her Transfiguration textbook – Wow! Ever so exciting! She rolled her eyes and glared down at the text.

Shortly before two in the afternoon, she stuck her head out into the hallway. The house was dead silent. It only made her more nervous. On muted feet, she crept down the stairs and into the kitchen, which was as quiet as the rest of the house. Not wanting to run this gamut again, she grabbed as much food as she could, including the roast chicken she had viciously stabbed the night before. Loaded to capacity with rations, she hurried back up to her room and stayed locked and warded inside for the rest of the night.

Near midnight, as she lay in the dark unable to sleep, the floor outside her door groaned under the weight of someone considerably heavier than Kreacher. Whoever it was outside walked away in the direction of Sirius’s bedroom; half a minute later the floorboards creaked again. The beating of her heart filled her ears with an erratic, frightened rhythm, which only increased and grew more frenzied when she saw the wards around her door glow as they were removed. The doorknob turned slowly, but stopped and the floorboards indicated that Sirius – for it had to be Sirius – was leaving again.

She stared at the door, waiting for him to come back again and wondering if he really would. Was he the sort of man who would simply take what he wanted? This would, of course, imply that he wanted her.

‘No,’ she thought. ‘He doesn’t want me. He wants to avoid Azkaban.’

As she watched and wondered, the doorknob turned again.

This time it did not stop.

Quickly as she could, before the door opened, she threw herself onto her side, closed her eyes and tried to keep her breathing like that of deep sleep. She wanted so badly to look, to see if the door had opened, to know if he was in the room.

She knew how she appeared to him – as a child, that girl of fourteen he had encountered barely two years ago with enormous front teeth and unruly hair that stuck out as if she had been electrocuted on a humid day. It had to be what he saw now, she reasoned, and why he muttered “Swot” to the dark room before leaving her untouched. Daring to look, she watched the door shut behind him. He did not return; she knew because she lay awake all night thinking over what it was that truly worried her.

While she hated the idea of losing her virginity both to a man she didn’t love and under duress, that was not her issue. Imagining what it was Sirius saw when he looked at her had shown her what it was that concerned her. She feared that she would not be good enough. As Sirius had said, he had done his fair share of shagging while she had done nothing more than kiss and only one boy at that. Her husband was probably expecting something at least decent if not spectacular after providing her with so many manuals. She had read them, true, but that did not mean she could utilise all the information on the first try.

Worse than fearing her own inadequacy, she now feared Sirius’s anger. Her behaviour had been horrid, childish even. However, somewhere between Sirius leaving her room and dawn, that shame at how she treated him faded and was replaced by absolute conviction that Sirius deserved having his bollocks assaulted after he had insulted her so callously and then forced himself on her. He had acted the bastard and her reaction was perfectly acceptable by modern standards.

She sat and fumed through most of Sunday, no one bothered her until a hard knock startled her late in the afternoon.

“Hermione?” Tonks shouted. “Are you in there? It’s time to go!”

“Are you alone?” the girl demanded.

“Yes,” she replied in confusion. “Where’s Sirius?”

Hermione threw the door wide. “I don’t know nor do I care. Let’s go before he comes back.” She gripped Tonks’s hand and ran down the stairs.

“See you next time!” James called as she flew past.

Hermione groaned. “I hadn’t thought about next time.”

“Was the sex bad?” Tonks asked, shock written all over her face.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Huh?”

“Just get me out of here!” she ordered and gripped the woman’s arm so tightly she left a bruise. They turned on the spot and Hermione felt compressed as the magic took them from London to Hogsmeade.

“So…” Tonks began as they walked the winding path up to the castle. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” replied the girl with so much force that Tonks did not try to speak again until she was offered an awkward ‘goodbye’ at the main gate of Hogwarts.

Hermione marched up the path, her anger growing with each step. By the time she made it up to Gryffindor Tower, dropped off her bag and stomped back down to the Great Hall, she was beyond livid and thought Azkaban a perfectly reasonable alternative to spending even a second in Sirius’s company, let alone his bed.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked when she started stabbing the jacket potato on her plate.

“Your Godfather is insufferable,” she bit out.

“Oh,” he replied, something resembling relief flitting across his face. “I was afraid you would come back all gooey and Lavender-y about him.”

She snorted scathingly, “Hardly.”

“Ron was sure you’d be completely in love after… you know…”

The girl’s brow knit together in a deep and unhappy frown. Why were her friends, her _male_ friends who only ever discussed Quidditch and Voldemort, discussing her sex life in her absence? She focused her ire at Harry before turning to look at Ron. Her eyes fell on an empty space. She looked to Harry’s other side, where Seamus sat. Her scowl fell away in favour of honest curiosity, “Where’s Ron?”

“He’s… uh… with Lavender,” replied Harry quietly. “They’re sort of going out.”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s nice.”

“Aren’t you angry?” he asked. “I thought you two liked each other.” He avoided her eye, choosing instead to focus on his fidgeting hands.

“I am angry,” she sighed, “but not about that. Just because my life has been destroyed by The Bloody Law doesn’t mean I don’t want my friends to be happy. If they like each other, I guess it’s fine.”

He nodded silently for a minute, the crease in his brow deepening with each bob of his head. “What if I don’t like it?” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a thin whisper. “Lavender is _really_ annoying.”

Hermione laughed, a properly loud laugh that shook her belly and cracked her face in half with a smile that pained her cheeks.

“I mean it!” he insisted. “She talks to him like a baby, calls him ‘Won-Won’.”

“Oh, that is priceless!” Hermione squealed as tears rolled down her cheek. “I cannot wait to see Ron’s face!”

Harry slumped in his seat, brooding for the rest of dinner. He grumbled his way back to the common room and groaned when Ron and Lavender sat down beside him on the couch, cooing and kissing noisily.

“Aren’t they precious?” Hermione sniggered.

Harry swatted at her arm, hissing, “Don’t encourage them!”

Ron and Lavender seemed completely oblivious to Harry’s annoyance and Hermione’s teasing and continued to snog with abandon even after Harry left for his private lesson with the Headmaster. Hermione just laughed her way up to her bed and slept through the night undisturbed by dreams or rattling doorknobs.

Harry was still smouldering over breakfast, though it might have been more to do with the coming Defence Against the Dark Arts class with Snape than with her lack of support. He ignored her attempts at conversation, not budging even when she inquired about what memories he and Dumbledore had viewed the night before. The boy remained taciturn toward her through class and for the rest of that day.

oOo

“Can’t they even stop for class?” Harry groaned as they left greenhouse six on Tuesday. “It’s embarrassing.”

Hermione nodded. She was thankful the couple was still in the greenhouse being told off and given detention by the generally jovial Professor Sprout, otherwise the lovebirds would be walking beside her and Harry, kissing each other loudly. She had to admit, “It is starting to get a little old.”

“Ha!” Harry declared triumphantly. She endured his ‘I told you so’s until they reached the Great Hall, where he stopped abruptly. “Hey, it’s Sirius. What’s he doing here?”

She followed his pointing finger until her eyes landed on the handsome face of Sirius Black. He was sitting at the high table talking to Hagrid and Professor McGonagall, a casual smile on his face. As she watched, he turned and looked over at them, nodding to the wave and broad grin Harry was sending his way before he met her eye. The man’s lack of emotion when looking at her spoke to just how pleased he was to see her.

“Bastard,” she muttered and spun around, stomping an angry path back to Gryffindor Tower, locking herself in her bedroom and not caring one bit that the other two girls that shared it would be unable to enter. If they couldn’t get in then neither could Sirius. She sat herself down on the windowsill and glared at the path that led to the main gate, certain he would leave that way eventually. Her backside grew numb and her legs became cramped, but she refused to move from her post. Parvati came pounding on the door, Ginny knocked not long after; Hermione denied either one entrance. Finally, after eight long hours and two missed meals, she saw Sirius walk from the castle with Professor Dumbledore. The men took their time, strolling leisurely along the worn path; Dumbledore paused and gestured to Gryffindor Tower. She was certain they were talking about her.

“What was that all about?” Ginny demanded the second the door was unlocked and opened.

“How long have you been out there?”

“Since just after dinner,” the redhead told her. “Sirius was there. Why weren’t you?”

She didn’t answer.

“Weekend not go well?” Ginny guessed.

“No,” Hermione said.

“No, it didn’t go well… or no, it did?”

“It did not go well at all,” Hermione sighed. The younger girl waited, her eyes and expression demanding information, which Hermione provided.

“He did act the knob, didn’t he?” Ginny shook her head. “At his age, you’d think he’d know how to approach a girl.”

“Apparently, he doesn’t.”

“Well, he’d best learn fast,” she commented. “The deadline is in two days.”

Hermione groaned and buried her head in her hands. “Don’t remind me!”

“Someone has to,” the girl said as she stood. “Azkaban is not a place I’d want to go. Especially if the alternative is sleeping with a gorgeous bloke.”

Hermione snorted. “Gorgeous he may be, but he’s still a git.”

Ginny smiled and left Hermione alone.

The Bloody Deadline, that’s what she had taken to calling it. The Bloody Deadline to fulfil their obligations under The Bloody Amendment of The Bloody Law. She hated every part of it, but that did not keep it from approaching at a breakneck speed. Wednesday flew past, with the evening spent glowering in the Prefect washroom after Nearly Headless Nick commented that he had seen Sirius walking rather purposefully toward Gryffindor Tower.

Her behaviour was childish, and she knew it.  She also knew they had parted on just about the worst terms possible; she fully expected him to be as angry at her as she was at him, and she did not want to face him until it was absolutely necessary, which was why Thursday morning found Hermione peering around every corner, watching for any sign of her husband along the route from the Great Hall to Transfiguration.

“Who are you looking for?” someone whispered in her ear.

“None of your business!” she snapped, refusing to be deterred.

“It is if you’re looking for me,” he replied.

She froze. “Sirius?”

“Yes,” he replied as he snaked an arm around her waist. “Hold on tight,” he advised as she felt the hook of a portkey catch behind her navel.


	19. The Bloody Deadline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author continues to beat her readers over the head with self-righteous anger and a considerably smaller amount of virginal terror than was in the first draft. (Seriously, if this amount annoys you, you would have cringed at the original.)

Hermione dug her nails into his forearm as she kicked at his knees and shins or whatever part of him she could manage to reach. “Let me go, you bastard!”

“Will you bloody stop hurting me every time I’m near you!” Sirius shouted and threw her across the room. She braced herself for a collision with the floor, but her fall was broken by a soft mattress instead.

She scrambled off the bed, trying to recognise the duvet as she went but it was no room she had ever seen before. “Where are we?” she demanded, digging in her pocket for her wand. “Where’s my bloody wand?”

“My room at the Three Broomsticks,” he told her curtly as he ran his wand over the wounds she had just made in his arm. “Did you really have to gouge me so hard?”

“Where is my wand?” she asked again, panic dulling the hard edge she had intended for him to hear.

“In my hand,” he replied. “Are you blind now?”

“Give it back!”

“I’d like to keep my bollocks, thank you very much,” he said lightly. “And you’ve done enough damage without magic, so I’ll hold on to it for a while.” She watched, angry and verging on hysterical as he put her wand into his pocket and folded his arms over his chest.

“Take me back,” she demanded.

“No.”

“I have class!”

“And you can make it up later. Minnie knows where you are,” he said. “Dumbledore, too.”

“He allowed you kidnap me?” she gaped, pushing past him to the door, twisting and turning the handle until her muscles burned from the wasted effort.

Sirius laughed, though not at her failed escape attempt. “You think I could get a portkey permit with the Ministry under Voldemort’s control? Dumbles had to make one for me.”

She whirled around and stared at him in disbelief. Why was everyone conspiring against her? McGonagall gave permission for her to miss class; Dumbledore facilitated her unwilling removal from the castle; Ginny and Tonks, even Harry’s mum, pushed her into wearing completely outlandish under-things. It was a grand conspiracy against her.

“We have a deadline that I have no intention of missing,” he informed her flatly, no humour or threat in his voice.

“I’m still mad at you,” she bit out.

“Well, you have thirteen hours to get over it,” he said.

“Fifteen,” she corrected. “Midnight is in fifteen hours.”

“Well, I like to think it will last longer than a minute,” he replied with a faint smirk.

“Don’t you start!” she warned. “You and your damn boasting and sleeping with people you don’t love and bloody sex books.” She was rambling and she knew it, but she was furious beyond reason.  “And how the hell did you change my books?” she demanded with a hard stomp of her foot.

“That?” he grinned, throwing himself onto the bed and folding his hand behind his head. “That was easy. I learned that spell third year, found it in some mouldy old book in the library. We used to use it to hide what we were really reading from all the teachers. Dead useful when we were learning to become Animagi.” He paused and gestured for her to sit, an offer she refused without consideration.

He shrugged and continued, “The spell is deceptively easy, just one word ‘mutaro’, but you have to have both books in front of you and keep your focus as you wave your wand to transfer each page.”

“You did that to every one of those books?” Her face twisted with her incredulity.

Again he shrugged. “I was bored.”

“You were not,” she insisted. “You planned it, knew you’d do it almost since we were engaged. It was premeditated!”

“Being premeditated does not negate the possibility of my being bored,” he countered with a raise of his eyebrow. “I don’t like going out anymore, so I stay in. I’ve read every book in my library and Moony is off doing whatever ‘Order business’ he refuses to discuss with me. I had a pretty, prudish fiancée to annoy, so I started plotting. It’s what I do. Deal with it.”

“Wait…” she said. “How did you get your hands on my books to begin with?”

“I have my secret allies,” he smiled.

“Ginny.”

“I will neither confirm nor deny that claim,” he said.

“So that’s how they kept changing even after I checked them all. And here I thought it was some impressive, time-delayed spell,” she snorted and sat in the chair before the small writing desk, folding her arms triumphantly.

“I resent that,” he glared at her. “That was terribly impressive spell work and you know it. And it wasn’t a time delay; those are for amateurs.”

“Oh?” She fought to keep her face impassive, knowing that if she aimed for boredom he would know just how curious she really was; he was properly clever, Ginny was right about that, but that didn’t mean she had to show her true interest in his magical prowess.

“Yes, any moronic second year can manage a time-delay,” he waved his hand. “But a voice-specific password… that’s a challenge.”

“You locked the hidden text inside a password-protected disguise charm?” her voice gave away her amazement, but she didn’t care. “How did you keep my detection charms from finding them?”

He grinned, “Even harder still, a localised Confundus charm.”

“But I wasn’t befuddled,” she said.

“Not for you,” he waggled a finger. “It was for your wand. Wands choose their owner, so they have enough awareness to be befuddled.”

She frowned. “I’ve never read that…”

“Nor have I. I took a guess once – a long while back – tried an experiment with a Confundus charm on Moony’s wand and it turned out that I was right.”

Her jaw fell without her permission. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that could have been? Tampering with wands can be catastrophic! You could have blown up half the castle!”

“Have I mentioned that I was a foolhardy youth?” he smirked. “Remus wasn’t nearly as good at keeping me in check as you are Harry. Have I thanked you for that?”

“Don’t you patronise me,” she snapped. “What’s the password and how do I turn my books back?”

He sighed, “Fine. The password is ‘book’. Unimaginative, I know, but I assumed you said it enough to work as a password.  I considered using my name to trigger the change, but I didn’t want to be presumptuous and think you talked about me often enough for that.” He paused and grinned at her as if begging for her to confirm that ‘Sirius’ would have made a fine password. When she remained silent, he sighed again and continued, “As for how to fix them, I’ll leave that for you to sort out. Now that you know what’s changing them, I’m sure you can figure out a way to fix them.”

“You made the mess; why should I have to clean it up?” she balked.

“Because I have no respect for someone who can’t solve as simple a problem as that,” he said with a smug smile as he closed his eyes and started humming a song to himself.

She grabbed the first item she could reach and threw it at him. “Like I care what you think!”

Sirius somehow managed to avoid being hit by the paperweight, a damn shame in Hermione’s opinion, and replied in a more meaningful tone, “Clearly, you do if what I say upsets you so much.”

“You upset me because you are an insufferable, insensitive, immature git!” she shouted, punctuating each slur against his character with an object at his head. None of them hit their mark, but they certainly got her point across. “I may be married to you, but I don’t have to like it! Or you!” She dropped back into the chair, turning it to face the opposite wall. “Just go away.”

“I paid for the room. I don’t see why I should have to leave it.”

“Then unlock the door so I can leave. I’m sick of the sight of you,” she spat, still refusing to look at him. She hated sulking; when she got angry, she preferred to shout, throw an object or a hex at the offending party and storm off to get over it in private. Sirius was denying her the ability to storm off, which left her with only glowering as an option.

“Well, that’s too damn bad, then, isn’t it?”

Silence of the most angry and awkward nature descended on the room. Sirius returned to the bed, laying in absolute comfort while Hermione sat stiffly in the chair, her arms tightly folded across her chest as she glared her anger at the parchment in front of her. The silent minutes continued to tick past, becoming an hour, then two, then three.

“Ah, lunch,” Sirius said brightly as the tray appeared on the desk before her. “Pass me a sandwich, would you?”

She grabbed a sandwich and tried very hard not to throw it at his head. “Here.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” she practically shouted, furious that he remembered such pleasantries.

“So,” he said, pleasantly, “I’ve been trying to figure out where Remus has been going whenever he disappears on ‘Order business’ – you can’t see it with your back turned, but I just made inverted commas in the air. I thought he might have been sneaking out to meet Tonks, but I overheard them talking.” He paused, either to take a bite of his lunch or to give her time to insert an appropriate question.

“Well, I’m very disappointed in Moony. He’s turned the girl down,” he said sadly. “Said that he’s too old for her and too dangerous and all that rot.” Another pause.

“If he isn’t meeting up with her, then he really must be off on ‘Order business’– inverted commas again – and it must be pretty massive if he isn’t even telling me about it,” Sirius sighed. “I hate being out of the loop.”

There was a long pause that had Hermione assuming he had given up trying to carry on a one-sided conversation, but it had only been time to chew and swallow because he continued, “I’ve considered breaking into his room, but I suspect he would smell it… tosser and his super smell. You know, at school he would always spoil the big news about who I had been snogging. He could smell the perfume on me and told everyone before I got the chance, the git.”

“Will you stop talking?” Hermione said. “I am trying to eat.”

“You can’t chew and listen simultaneously?” he asked with a smirk in his voice.

“Not while also fighting the overwhelming urge to stab you with a letter opener, no,” she replied tightly.

“Have it your way,” he said and fell silent. Unfortunately, his conversation about Remus and his ‘Order business’ had given her something to think about other than how insufferable her husband was, and she found herself considering what the Order of the Phoenix was doing that even Sirius was being kept in the dark; he was one of the senior members of the organisation, if anyone deserved vital information, it was him. Another of their precious few hours passed during which she slowly chewed on both her sandwich and the available clues.

She had not seen much of Remus since term began, just their brief Friday evening together. He had not appeared overly stressed, had he? Their arrival was more jittery than normal, with Tonks and Remus jumping at every shadow. Did that indicate that they were anticipating a real attack? If so, who was the intended target?

“Have you tried following him?” she asked, spinning her chair around to look at him.

Sirius blinked back from whatever daydream he had found to quietly occupy himself, “Who? Oh, Moony? I tried Monday night, but I lost him when he disappeared down Knockturn Alley.”

“What would he be going down there for?” she wondered.

“Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if some werewolves camped down there,” he said. “But I thought the Order had given up on convincing them not to join Voldemort.”

She frowned. “I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I,” he agreed and dropped his head back onto the pillow to recommence his daydreaming.

Hermione turned back to the writing desk and took to making a list of all the potential things Remus might have been doing for the Order. Their situation had changed dramatically with the passage of The Bloody Law. There had been fewer attacks and no news of Death Eaters recruiting abroad. It was almost as if Voldemort had a new obsession: Her. She shivered at the thought of being the dark wizard’s sole objective.

While an unbelievably frightening thought, not to mention completely self-centred, she could not imagine another reason for the lull in Death Eater activity. Since becoming the unseen master of the Ministry, Voldemort had done nothing with that authority to advance his cause or increase his power. The only thing he had done was pass the marriage law so that one of his minions might marry her and bring her to him in chains. When that plan failed, he created the amendment so that she would go to Azkaban, because she would surely choose protest over mandated sex.

Voldemort’s new aim was in controlling her. It was the only explanation for the alteration in Death Eater tactics. However, it still did not change the fact that Remus was disappearing down Knockturn Alley, the dark wizards’ haunt.

“I hate to bring it up again,” Sirius said quietly. “But it’s eight o’clock and we do have a deadline.” He held aloft the little mechanical alarm clock that had been sitting on his bedside table.

“Eight?” she repeated disbelievingly and tore the clock from his hands. “When did it become eight? What happened to dinner?”

An amused smile crossed his mouth, “You ate it already while you sat and stared. What were you thinking about?”

“I did?” she looked at the empty plate on the desk and back at Sirius, who nodded. “I was thinking about Voldemort and must have lost track of time.”

“Well, we’ve four hours left,” he commented.

She stared at him, her original concerns returning and she cringed to think how childish she seemed dressed in her school uniform, having a strop and daydreaming away so many hours without even realising.

“You go take a shower or something to relax,” he suggested. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She nodded her compliance and went into the washroom, remembering somewhere between rinsing her hair and washing her feet that she had been angry with him just eleven hours earlier and now she was mutely following his orders. So what if Voldemort had made her the focus of his attention? So what if she was only seventeen and her husband was thirty-six? Nothing changed the fact that Sirius had acted the scoundrel towards her.

She threw her clothes on and stormed back into the bedroom. “What are you playing at?” she demanded. “You still haven’t even apologised to me!”

“That would be because I’m not sorry,” he said matter-of-factly. “I appreciate how you feel. But I do wish you would get over it so we don’t end up in Azkaban. Need I remind you that I’ve spent a great deal of time there and know for a fact it is not a place worth visiting?”

“I don’t care about deadlines and Azkaban,” she spat. “I care about you treating me horribly and not apologising.”

He rose languorously, stretching out his long arms as he walked around the bed. Coming to a stop directly in front of her, he considered her persistent anger and smiled. “When I know I’m wrong, I apologise,” he said. “I don’t think I’m wrong this time.”

“You—“ she started to berate him again, but he dropped his head and kissed her pouting lips.

“I need a shower,” he said and walked around the poor, stunned girl.

“How does he keep doing that?” she asked the empty room.


	20. The Final Countdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione finally gets over herself... mostly.

Anger. That’s what she felt, Hermione was certain of it.

No, panic. Panic was definitely what she was feeling.

Hermione glanced at the clock on the table and felt the jolt run through her. Yes, it was panic. They only had two hours before the Ministry came calling. Sirius had been in the washroom for close to an hour. Add to that the hour she had spent in that same room before him, and that left them far too close to the deadline for Hermione’s liking. She stood and started pacing, but found it only made her more anxious. She sat, but her nervous energy had her heel bouncing off the floor.

“What’s taking so long?” she fretted aloud.

“It takes a lot of work to look this good,” Sirius replied cheekily.

She spun around, annoyance on the tip of her tongue. “It’s about ti—“ she stopped. “Please tell me you have pants on under that.”

The man looked down at the towel wrapped around his hips. “I didn’t see the point.”

“Sirius, put some pants on,” she ordered in a slightly bored tone; she sounded like she was tired of arguing, which she was.

“Well, that is why I came out. No point in putting dirty pants on a clean body, now is there?” he smiled and pulled a pair of trousers from the bureau drawer. “Some privacy if you please.”

She rolled her eyes and turned her back. Within two hours, she was certain to see him naked; what did it matter if she saw him putting his trousers on under a towel?

“Modesty managed,” he said, removing the towel with a flourish to show off his trousers.

“You really are a git, you know that?” she shook her head.

“It’s part of my charm,” he grinned.

She could only duck her head to keep him from seeing that she was smiling. He needed no more encouragement. “I—“ she looked up and saw he was standing much closer than he had been just a second ago. Too close. “Will you put some bloody clothes on!” she snapped.

He took a slow breath in, “Generally, people try to get their clothes off for this sort of thing…”

“Well, perhaps I’m just odd,” she growled and stepped away from him.

Unfortunately, in such a small room, there was nowhere she could go to really avoid him. The washroom might have been an option if Sirius were not blocking her path to the door, so she had to settle for standing in a far corner, facing the wall like some poorly behaved child in primary school.

The warm weight of his hands fell on her shoulders, “Hermione, it’s nothing to be frightened of.”

“I’m not frightened,” she laughed darkly. “I’m angry, at you, at the Ministry, at Voldemort… at myself.”

“Perfectly understandable,” he said.

“Will you stop being so considerate?” she growled and slapped his hands away, stooping under his arm to escape him. The man would not be avoided, however. He managed to keep himself between her and the washroom door. “Get out of my way!” she shouted.

“Why? So you can hole yourself up until the deadline passes?” he asked. “I don’t care how cross you are, I won’t let you do that to yourself.”

She huffed and stormed to a different corner, where she stayed undisturbed for several long minutes. Given their dwindling time, Hermione was surprised he left her alone. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him sitting on the bed studying some spot on the floor she had no interest in. Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, she started inching toward the washroom.

The man was on his feet and before her in an instant.

“No hiding.”

“I’m not trying to hide,” she insisted stubbornly.

“Really? Then what are you trying to do?” he inquired.

“Think! I can’t think with you here,” she pushed at him, but he would not be moved. “Where’s my wand so I can hex you?”

“I put it somewhere safe for now.”

She glared hard at him. “You hid my wand?”

“No, of course not,” he assured her. “I just put it away so you wouldn’t try to kill me.”

“Who’s to say I still won’t?”

“Provided you’re going to kill me with kisses, I can deal with that,” he smiled winningly and leaned in to demonstrate.

“No!” Hermione leapt back. “I will not be kissed into submission! Keep those away from me!” she ordered, pointing at his lips.

An amused smile covered his face, his chest and stomach shook with silent laughter, but he took a step back, “As you wish, but you will regret that request… I’ll tell you what, how about we make a deal?”

“Like I’d trust you. You kidnapped me and stole my wand.”

“I will return your wand after midnight,” he promised. “The deal: You get an hour of your way. You can hide in the washroom and ‘think’ all you like about whatever you like.” He gestured to the open washroom door. “But in exactly one hour, you come out and I get my way.”

She eyed him with suspicion. “What’s your way?”

“I kiss you into submission, of course,” he smiled wickedly, his eyes glittering with all sorts of promises.

“What if I don’t like that deal?”

He frowned as he considered it. “Then you’d sit out here getting angry at me until the deadline got so close that I would have to force myself on you because I’m not about to go back to Azkaban, not even if it means making myself the worst sort of bastard there is,” Sirius said soberly. “I’m sorry.”

Hermione stared at him, knowing he meant every word. “Okay…” she said quietly and ran to the washroom, slamming the door shut behind her. “One hour, not a minute less!” she called through the door.

“Smart girl,” he replied.

For all her earlier claims to the contrary, once she was alone in the washroom, her fear took hold, making her feel like some tiny struggling animal in the grip of a boa constrictor. She was not afraid of having sex or even of what Sirius would think of her. She feared Sirius, a man who would rape her rather than go to prison.

She beat back the terror by sheer force of will, reclaiming her logic.

“He was in my room,” she said slowly as she lowered herself onto the edge of the bathtub. “If that was all he wanted, he could have done it then. He thought I was asleep and couldn’t stop him. He could have stunned me or modified my memory, but he chose to leave me alone.”

Reconsidering the proposal he had offered her, she realised another fact: “He apologised, which he only does when he knows he’s wrong. It isn’t that he really wants to force himself on me. He wants to kiss me and make it pleasurable for me, too.”

She frowned again as a con popped up on her mental list. “He is being terribly pushy. None of this would have been necessary if he had been a bit more gentlemanly last weekend. He really is old enough to know better than that,” she grumbled, but her ire could not hold up to the fact that there was a deadline fast approaching. She had already established that Sirius knew better than she did how horrid prison was. His pushiness was understandable in the light of such knowledge. Looking at her behaviour from his point of view, she was simply being stupid and immature, her indignation more akin to a pouting infant who had not gotten her way.

This entire situation might have been foisted on them, but she was the brightest and most mature student in her year, she should have been able to see a way to making their relationship workable if not pleasant.

It took several minutes of silent lip-chewing, but she started to see around her insecurities.

“Maybe if I focused on the kissing it might not be so bad,” she reasoned. “I’ve kissed before, so it isn’t as if I’m completely without experience. He hasn’t complained yet, so I must be adequate. I know he’s good at it. So if I think of it as being forced to kiss, which is something I enjoy and don’t mind in the slightest being told to do, then anything that comes about as a result of the kissing doesn’t matter so much.”

It seemed a bit silly, more childish even than her fears of being substandard in bed, but it was the only way she could think to approach their situation that did not have her hyperventilating.

She thought back over all the kisses she had ever shared. Excluding the life guard who used her to demonstrate mouth-to-mouth resuscitation during a class visit to the public swimming pool, she had only ever kissed Viktor before Sirius came along. Viktor had been all force and no finesse; it felt good, but that was with nothing else to compare it to. Now that she had kissed Sirius, she knew that Viktor was decidedly amateurish.

Sirius had kissed her just three times and each time was different, nuanced in a way she had never thought kisses might be. Regardless of what he thought of her ability, he kept it to himself, guiding her with his own actions. She wondered why she had not noticed sooner. If, as Remus suggested, she thought of sex and kissing as merely another subject to be studied, then Sirius had already proven himself a fine teacher. Besides, a man who could vary something as simple as lips together and massage tongues could make anything better by his involvement.

Almost as soon as the thought crossed her mind, the door opened and Sirius leaned against the door frame. “Your time is up.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? No arguments? No more shouting?”

“No. We had a deal,” she said.

“Good.” He held out his hand and she remembered that evening a week after their engagement when she escaped to his company. He had held her hand all the way to the kitchen. His prolonged gentlemanly gesture had led her to ask about romance novels, which of course led to her having a bookcase filled with sex manuals… and a bodice. She smiled at herself for bringing such things about as she took his hand and let him pull her through to the bedroom.

“What are you grinning at?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Clearly, it’s something. Tell me,” he demanded gently. “This is my time. You have to do what I want during my time.”

Clicking her tongue in annoyance, though she still smiled as she admitted, “I just wish I had that bodice thing Ginny gave me.”

His grin fell. “You have a bodice that I could be ripping right now and you didn’t bring it with you?”

“Well, I hardly planned on getting kidnapped today, now did I?” she replied. “Weren’t we supposed to be kissing during ‘your time’? Those were sarcastic quote marks, in case you weren’t looking.”

“Cute,” he scowled and stepped closer.

Instinct had her taking a step back to keep the personal space between them, but his arm curled around her waist to prevent her retreat. He was grinning again – more like smirking – as he held her eye. She felt like she ought to say something, but couldn’t think of anything. Just the thought of him kissing her left her brain addled.

“My time,” he reminded her and dove down to claim her mouth.

Oh, she did like how he kissed. It was never the same thing twice. Granted, this was only the fourth one they had shared. Still, Viktor kissed exactly the same way every time, regardless of whether it was their ought-to-have-been-tentative first kiss or the passionate ‘I’ve just saved you from certain death at the hands of Mermen’ kiss or the last kiss they ever shared; every one of them had been the same. Not like this. This was not the innocent wedding kiss or the angry kiss or the sneaky goodbye kiss. It, too, was different. More demanding than the goodbye without the fierce edge of the one he stole in anger; this was the sort of kiss she could enjoy for every minute of Sirius’s time.

She expected him to tangle his hands in her hair like last time, forcing her to stay locked against his lips, but he must have trusted her to keep to their bargain because his hand simply cupped her face, his thumb brushing gentle circles on her cheek.

They stood kissing for countless minutes. The only indication Hermione had of the time passing was the pain growing in her neck from craning to meet him. Her hands batted at his chest searching for a shirt that they might grip to bring him closer; all they found was bare skin. She had to snake her arm behind his neck to pull him further down.

At that insistent gesture, he lifted her effortlessly and carried her to the bed, never breaking the kiss. He smiled against her lips as she pulled his body flush against hers and mewed at the pleasure it brought her. Hermione had no idea what she was expected to do, but right now the kissing felt good, his body pushing down on her felt even better, his hand sliding up her thigh was the tops; somewhere far at the back of her brain, Hermione was very annoyed for having denied herself such a wonderful sensation on her wedding night when she had removed her own garter. As his palm travelled farther north, that tiny, annoyed section at the back of her mind directed her hips to lift off the bed so he could cup her backside. That simple, subconscious action set the tone for the rest of Sirius’s time. A leg locked around his hip, pushing him even harder against her; one of her hands gripped his hair while the other managed to find its way clear down to his arse.

It seemed she was just as bossy in bed as she was every other aspect of life. She knew what felt good and would not hesitate to make it happen, though Sirius was not one to be outdone. His hand, that pioneer that had already ventured where no man or boy had before dared, was travelling yet farther into virgin territory.

“Sirius, wait,” she said, gasping for all the breath she had lost to him.

“My time, remember?” he reminded her and kissed her lightly on the neck.

“But I— _oh_ ,” all the arguments halted abruptly as his brilliant fingers caressed the fabric between her thighs. She bit back the noises she knew would embarrass her to no end and instead demanded, “Do that again.”

“Bossy little thing,” he smiled, but complied.

“Too much talking,” she said and pulled his mouth to hers. She didn’t care if it was his time, his lips were too talented to be wasted on idle chatter.

She had been right; there was nothing Sirius couldn’t make better by his involvement. His fingers were as brilliant as his lips and tongue. No, more brilliant, she decided as those digits continued their adept movements without the barrier of cotton knickers. Yes, the most brilliant and talented aspect of Sirius was definitely his fingers.

“I hate to rush,” he whispered against her lips, “but we only have five minutes left.”

What was he talking about? What did the time matter when his fingers were so close to making her burst?

Her whine at his removal was instantly engulfed in a cry of shock as he entered her. It didn’t hurt, not the sharp stab of pain she had expected.

His lips pulled away and he watched her face, holding her eye. “You okay?”

“Wasn’t it supposed to hurt?” she gasped.

“It doesn’t?”

“No… Oh God! I’m even weird in bed!” she covered her face with her hands, horrified. He laughed, just a chuckle, really, but it was the stupidest thing he could have done. “Don’t you laugh at me!” she snapped and tried to push him off.

“Look at me,” he ordered and she did. “You are perfect.”

“Now you’re making fun of me,” she grumbled, making him laugh again.

If only she could knee him in his bollocks again, but the way he was lying between her legs there was no way of managing that. Digging her nails into his skin might be misconstrued as encouragement given that he was currently inside her.

Wait. He was inside her, surrounded by muscles she controlled.

‘Aha! I’ve got you now, you git,’ she glared, constricting her inner muscles with as much violence as she could.

“Oh Merlin!” he cried out as his face fell to the pillow beside her.

“Don’t laugh at me!”

He lay still, breathing hard into her shoulder for a second, an eternity to her. Hermione worried she might have broken him, but, as he lifted his head, that worry turned inward, toward herself. His eyes were dark, his voice so strained it sent a strange thrill through her. “If that was mean to hurt me, you’ve got a lot to learn, little girl.” Grasping her hips with a bruising force, Sirius thrust into her.

Her lungs could not hold onto their air, but still she managed to moan and cry out with his every movement. She would have been embarrassed if she wasn’t so busy readjusting her mental list to put Sirius’s brilliant fingers down to second and his lips in third. There was a new winning body part atop his list of most talented.

She would have been even more humiliated when the door flew open and a pompous beanpole of a man strode in, reading a speech off a roll of parchment in his hands, completely oblivious to the couple before him: “Mr and Mrs Black, the deadline for your marital obligations has past and i-it is m-my–“ he stuttered to a stop when Sirius intentionally groaned as if in ecstasy. Eyes wide and ears flaming red, he searched his scroll for the appropriate response. Clearly, he never thought they would be in the process of ‘meeting their obligation’ when he arrived.

“Uh… T-thank you for your s-s-service to our community,” he managed to read hurriedly. “I see I’ll not need to visit you in the future. Good day.” He spun and slammed the door shut.

Sirius laughed into her shoulder, “Might be worth risking the next deadline just to see that again.”

Hermione horrified protest at the idea came out as a moan.

“Ooh,” the man between her thighs grinned wickedly as realisation struck him. “Obligation and deadline met… that means I can take it slow now.”

“No slow,” she objected with limited eloquence, but she made her meaning plain by the tightening of her hold around him.

“As you wish,” he groaned and kissed her heatedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought y'all deserved this after putting up with so many chapters of self-righteous indignation and virginal terror. I've given thought to rewriting the past few chapters to cut a lot of that out, but I wrote and posted this back in 2012 and I'm just too lazy for that now.
> 
> In response to the complaint about Hermione being childish, I say You are absolutely right. That was sort of the point. The Bloody Law had robbed her of all the things that made her who she was, forcing her to rely on others because no amount of cleverness could get her out of her situation. It made her angry and a little too like the stubborn and irrational teenager she, in age anyway, actually is. Ta for the feedback; I do listen. I'm just too far removed from the writing of this to bother changing it.


	21. Tactless

Lying beside Sirius, Hermione waited for the awkwardness to begin. She was certain it would arrive soon. They had just had sex while fully clothed on top of the duvet of his bed in the Three Broomsticks. Of all the things that had passed between them, that was bound to be the most awkward-making. Surely, the comfort she felt would pass, leaving embarrassment in its place.

“So,” Sirius said, “it’s after midnight.”

“What’s the time matter now that the deadline has passed?” she asked.

“You act like we only had the one,” he smiled. “We have to worry about the deadline coming around again in two weeks, pet.”

She frowned. “So what does it being midnight now matter to a deadline that isn’t for another fourteen days?”

The man rolled over so he was pressing her down into the mattress. “It’s after midnight thus making it the first of November. We are officially into our next two weeks… If we had another go we would be fulfilling our next obligation.”

“Oh,” she said.

He bent his head and started trailing open-mouth kisses down her neck, following the gentle curve, pulling the shirt and jumper away to continue as far along her shoulder as he could while still letting her keep her clothes on. It felt so good she momentarily forgot to process what he had just said. Awareness came on quickly and she took away a great compliment. He wanted to sleep with her again, right then, right there and with minimal waiting.

“Come on,” he grinned. “What do you say we get a head start for next time?” Sirius suggested as he ground his hips against hers.

She bit her lip to keep from giggling at the childlike excitement in his eyes. “Well, one or two of those illustrations in my _Hogwarts: A History_ book did look interesting,” she admitted very slowly. “I wouldn’t mind trying them out if you’re not too tired.”

Ignoring the jibe at his stamina, he stared at her. “You actually read that?”

“It’s a book…” she said as if that was all the explanation that was necessary.

He dropped his head and laughed quietly. “I should have expected that,” he said. His eyebrow came up as he met her eye again. “So what else did you read? Did you by chance read my improvements to _Ingenious Pursuits_? Because there are one or two chapters in that book that I would find extremely diverting…”

Hermione was sure she was blushing again. “I might have skimmed it through.”

“I’m guessing you more than just skimmed it,” he grinned. “That book is a personal favourite of mine. I know it by heart. What do you say I start with chapter one and keep going until I figure out where you got so embarrassed that you threw it back onto your shelf? ‘Chapter One’,” he quoted from memory without waiting for her compliance, “‘On the Benefits of Kissing by Mouth’…”

He quoted and paraphrased his way through chapters one through five, all of which involved kissing various body parts. She particularly enjoyed chapter five, ‘On the Benefits of Kissing the Inner Thigh’. Chapters six, seven, eight and nine weren’t half bad, either, concerning various methods of massage. It was around chapter ten’s vigorous massaging of the buttocks that she descended into giggles.

“Ah, so that’s where you got embarrassed?” Sirius grinned. “I thought for sure you would have given up around chapter five. You are full of surprises.”

She could only giggle in reply.

“I once was with a bird who couldn’t make it past chapter two, kept elbowing me every time I kissed her behind the ear. I avoided the ticklish ones after that,” he cringed at the memory.

Hermione’s laughter petered out, “You know, I might be new at this but I’m quite sure you shouldn’t be talking about some other woman while in bed with me.”

“Relax,” he said dismissively. “That was ages ago. I haven’t been with anyone since Harry’s first birthday. I almost forgot how wonderful a woman felt.”

She wanted to be indifferent about Sirius’ sex life before marrying her. She wanted to be the bigger person and remember that their marriage had been forced, that Sirius was just doing his duty in keeping her safe and out of the hands of Death Eaters, Dementors and Dark Lords. But she couldn’t. For hours, she has ridden a glorious high of euphoria that not only was she _not_ weird or mediocre in bed, she was so good that Sirius didn’t want to stop. His confession of a fifteen-year abstinence, however, was a slap in the face. His desire for continued encores had nothing to do with her ability. He was simply making up for nearly two decades of lost time. The only thing he required a warm, willing body.

“I’m getting tired,” she said flatly. “I’d like to head back to the castle.”

“Now?” he asked, disappointment clear on his face. “It’s four in the morning, no one will be awake to let you in the gate.”

“I can take the passage through Honeyduke’s,” replied the girl with cold practicality as she stood and started collecting her clothes from around the bed, too angry with him to care what he thought of her naked form.

“Filch will catch you.”

Avoiding his eye as she fastened the buttons of her blouse, she said, “I’m a Prefect. I’m allowed to be out of bed after curfew.”

Silence followed during which Hermione finished gathering her far-flung bits of clothes. She was unaware of what Sirius was doing, and that was how she wanted to keep it.

“Fine, I’ll make sure you get there safe,” he agreed. He dressed, his shoulders drooping with dejection. No, it was probably just exhaustion catching up to him.  

“You don’t have to,” she said. “It’s been a long day and you look tired.”

His reaction was almost comical. No sooner had the word ‘tired’ passed her lips had his posture become that of a Grenadier – spine rigid, shoulders squared, head high. He snapped to attention so quickly, she was concerned he might have hurt himself in the process, but his eyes burned with indignation.

“I’m not that old yet, thank you,” he replied through clenched teeth.

She threw on her school robes and knew they would be insufficient against the early morning cold. A spell could easily protect her from the chill, if she had her wand. “Where’s my wand?”

Without a word, he unlocked the desk drawer and gestured for her to take the wand he had hidden there.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

Sirius nodded curtly and led the way from the third floor room. Once they reached the door that would lead them into the dark village, his soldiering posture only intensified. With his back pressed firmly to the wall, he peered around corners and kept to the dark shadows thrown by the torches and streetlamps. She had not wanted his company, but watching his paranoid movements she felt somehow grateful for his concern and effort, obligatory as they might have been.

Easily lowering the wards and picking the lock on the sweets shop, Sirius led her silently down to the basement and all the way through the black passage to the castle. He kept by her side through the corridors and secret passages of Hogwarts until she was safely inside the portrait hole of Gryffindor Tower.

“Goodnight,” she said and turned away quickly. His work in bringing her all the way to the tower was unnecessary and she did not want to feel anything resembling kindness toward him after he had used her so appallingly; making her feel so beautiful and special only to inform her that it was all a matter of being willing. She had been right when she called him a pig.

“Good morning, actually,” the Fat Lady corrected irritably. “Of all the hours to bring a young lady home!” She scolded and slammed her frame shut before Sirius might consider following the girl in.

Hermione climbed the stairs slowly, painfully. Sex required so many more muscles than she had anticipated, and nearly all of them were screaming at her now. A soothing bath would serve her just as well as a few hours’ sleep, she decided, and she trudged back down the stairs and out to the Prefect’s washroom.

“Goodness, girl! Show some propriety,” the Fat Lady balked. “Give the man time to miss you or he will soon grow tired and cast you aside… I speak from experience, you know.”

“I’m just going to take a bath,” Hermione snapped and stomped off.

Cast her aside, indeed. She would like to see him try. He had said cheating would cause him physical pain. Perhaps she could find someone to flirt with him, make him suffer a bit.

‘Oh, now you’re just being stupid,’ she rolled her eyes and dove into the scented bath water. It was heaven to her aching and, quite frankly, filthy body.  She luxuriated in the glorious bath, sleeping lightly as she floated in the sudsy waters. Only when the sun rose high enough to shine through the window of the washroom did she finally step from the massive bathtub.

Clean body. Clean clothes. A new day. What more could she want for?

‘Protection,’ she groaned internally as she saw Ginny and Lavender descending on her in the Great Hall.

“And where were you during class? And lunch? And dinner? And All. Night. Long?” Lavender practically sang with rabid excitement.

Hermione wanted to flee. She wasn’t proud of it, being a brave Gryffindor and all, but she would sooner face off with half a dozen Death Eaters than rehash her time with Sirius. “None of your business,” she replied with as much haughtiness as she could manage.

“Oh, but it is,” Ginny disagreed. “We are your friends. We were worried about you.”

“You know very well where I was and with whom,” Hermione bit out the words with surprising calm.

“I knew it!” Lavender squealed. “He couldn’t stay away, could he? I saw him waiting for you, but to steal you away for twenty-four hours of passionate love making… oh, that is so romantic.”

Hermione laughed scornfully. “Ever so romantic.”

“Hermione,” Ginny hedged. “If you aren’t in Azkaban right now, then you must’ve done it.”

“No, we did,” she admitted indifferently.

“Was he no good?”

“Impossible. That man is sex on legs,” Lavender disagreed wholeheartedly. Just across the table, Harry choked on his eggs and ran to a seat as far from them as was possible. Lavender giggled and continued, “But what’s all this about Azkaban?”

Ginny glanced quickly at her friend. Lavender might not have fought with them at the Department of Mysteries, but she had defied Umbridge and been in Dumbledore’s Army. Still, given her big mouth and far-reaching information network, it might be too dangerous for her to know about the arrangement Hermione had with Sirius, so Ginny stuck to the bare minimum of truth. “You read the Prophet a few weeks back, right? The new amendment? Well, they had a deadline of midnight last night to ‘fulfil their obligation’ or go to Azkaban.”

“I don’t see the fuss,” the girl said with a deep frown. “You’re married. You’re in love. So what?”

“Uh… he was being a gentleman and waiting until I was out of school rather than risk accidental pregnancy,” Hermione improvised quickly.

“So considerate,” she swooned. “I have to tell Parvati, she’ll be so jealous.” The girl ran to her friend and sat discussing how lucky Hermione was for the remainder of breakfast.

As soon as she had gone, Ginny’s disturbingly realistic smile fell. “Truth. Now.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Clearly there is when you’ve been gone nearly twenty-four hours and you are looking rather annoyed about that fact,” she pointed to her friend’s face, but dropped her hand as Hermione continued to scowl. “Did he make you do it?”

“No!” Hermione cried, appalled. “Although he did bring that up as his last resort to avoid Azkaban.”

Ginny paled. “I’m glad it didn’t come to that,” she agreed. “But why are you so unhappy. I thought for sure you two would be in love after a night together.”

“Ginny,” Hermione sighed, not sure how best to let the girl down. “I’m not foolish enough to mistake sex for love. It was good – better than good – but it doesn’t mean we love each other; it just means we did what we had to do to keep out of jail.” She was tempted to tell her the full truth of Sirius’s admission, how she was little more than a vessel, but the girl had a ridiculously romantic idea in her mind that Hermione hated to fully destroy.

Ginny grumbled disappointedly. “I thought for sure it would work.”

“Why are you so determined that we fall in love?”

“Because you’re perfect for each other,” Ginny insisted. “And you’re also stuck with each other until one of you dies, so you might as well enjoy being stuck.”

Now that was a fair point, Hermione had to admit. With the unbreakable binding, they really were linked for life. A lifetime of argument and misunderstanding was hardly what she wanted, but it seemed that’s all she would be getting with Sirius. For a man of his age and experience, he could be as tactless as Ron; he always managed to say exactly the wrong thing to make her angry or send her running. He knew it, too. He had refused to make the promise to her mother that he would never hurt her. If he had, he would have broken it at least twice by now and they had only been married forty-two days.

“We’ll find our way. It might take a while and it certainly won’t be love, but it will work,” sighed Hermione. “It’ll have to.”


	22. Hogsmeade Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione learns of her husband's after-hours activities and is none too pleased by them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon me while I take a moment to justify my plot. This story was written after reading countless Marriage Law fics that all followed the same exact plot: Hermione is forced to marry a man she is secretly crushing on, hops in the sack and she's desperately in love and is then kidnapped, whereupon her husband rescues her from certain death/molestation and proves he's equally in love with her, too. Every. Single. One. Exactly. The. Same. So please forgive me if I wanted to write something different. 
> 
> And before you start telling me how clever they both are and how much they should be able to get along, I must inform you that my sister is a proper and verified genius. I can say with absolute certainty that smart people can be hella stupid. 
> 
> Soapbox is being up away now.

Hogsmeade weekend could not have come at a better time. Hermione was drowning in a sea of NEWT level reading and homework. Quite a large sea, at that, like the Mediterranean. Normally it would have been a manageable Red Sea-sized body of work, but she had been growing increasingly distracted as the fourteenth drew ever closer.

It was The Bloody Deadline approaching far quicker than she had wanted.

Given that the majority of their bedroom time had happened after midnight when it was officially the first of November, she would have liked to think that she and Sirius were set for the coming deadline. However, Hermione worried that some eager young Ministry worker, who had no idea for whom he or she was truly working, would argue that all the activities the couple had engaged in that morning were merely extensions of the previous night’s sex and did not count toward the new deadline.

Worse still was that Sirius had not written her a single letter to make arrangements for the fourteenth. He sent Harry notes every other day; his wife, nothing.

She was beginning to think that he would not bother with this deadline at all and simply risk Azkaban.

Thankfully, they had a beautiful, if extremely chilly, day in the village ahead of them. Heading toward the gate, Harry chatted with Hermione while Ron tried his level best to untangle himself from Lavender, who was cooing baby talk into his ear.

Filch was guarding the open gate, eyeing the students with dislike and the figure approaching from Hogsmeade with distrust.

“Remus!” Harry shouted excitedly. He sprinted forward and wrapped the man in a hug. The boy might have a Godfather and guardian in Sirius but Remus would always remain his mentor, which was a very good thing, in Hermione’s opinion, considering how much Sirius’s behaviour left to be desired.

“Good morning, Harry, Ron,” the man grinned. His smile dimmed ever so slightly as he turned from the boys to look at her, “Hermione.”

Oblivious to the subtle change in the man’s face, Harry asked hopefully, “Is Sirius here? Are you coming to Hogsmeade with us?”

The man looked away and rubbed the back of his neck in an awkward gesture, “No, actually. I’m here to see Dumbledore – Order business. Sirius is back at Grimmauld Place. He’s… been a bit moody lately.”

The fact that Sirius was in a mood did not faze Hermione. The part of his reply that she took notice of was the ‘Order business’. She remembered Sirius mentioning it early in her captivity. At the time she had been intrigued and worried what the man might be doing that was so secret that even Sirius was in the dark. Later she thought he had simply made it up to have something to draw conversation from her. Apparently, he had been speaking truthfully. Sirius always spoke with honesty, she had to admit resentfully.

“What sort of Order business?” she asked before they could move the conversation along or end it entirely.

“Oh, nothing you need worry about,” he evaded, though she noted how his eye did not meet either hers or Harry’s. “I’m running a little late, actually, so I’d best be going. I’ll try to stick around for dinner, okay?”

As they parted ways, Hermione spoke, keeping her voice low so Lavender would not hear. “Sirius mentioned Remus was being secretive lately. He said he has been disappearing on ‘Order business’ for a while now, and that he vanished down Knockturn Alley the one time he tried to follow him.”

“Why would Remus be going down there?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I think it’s all very strange. Do you think Dumbledore would tell you anything if you asked?”

The boy shrugged. “Doubt it, but I can try.”

“When’s your next lesson?”

“Tomorrow night. Think we’ll make it to Riddle’s Hogwarts years. Still creepy thinking of him as a normal person,” Harry frowned.

Hermione nodded and walked the rest of the way in silent contemplation beside him. Ron and Lavender’s kissing and giggling made poor accompaniment to their thoughts and they were quickly abandoned in the village.

Honeyduke’s made for a wonderful diversion, even if both Harry and Hermione were too busy imagining what sort of Order business Remus might be working on to fully appreciate the mouth-watering sights and smells of the shop.

“Butterbeer?” Harry offered and pointed with his thumb to the Three Broomsticks just up the road.

Hermione was reluctant to return to the pub where she and Sirius had ‘fulfilled their obligation’. Really, it was the closest thing to a honeymoon she would ever have, so she ought to think better of it. Her pride still ached, however, and it was easier to deal with what had happened if she only thought of their actions in simple, bureaucratic terms of contractual obligation instead of trying to romanticise it. Even then she didn’t want to go to the Three Broomsticks.

‘Oh, stop being foolish,’ she scolded herself. ‘It’s not as if you had sex at the bloody bar.’

“Fine,” she said brusquely and buried her face deeper in her Weasley scarf to hide her flaming cheeks. Despite what her brain said, her feet were disinclined to enter the pub, and she straggled behind Harry as he moved purposefully toward the warm and welcoming establishment. He had to hold the door open for other students entering and leaving as she made her unwilling way.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked tactlessly.

“Nothing,” she sighed and dropped onto a stool at the bar, the only available seat in the whole place. Students filled every booth and table in the pub, elbowing one another mercilessly to get near enough to the bar to order.

“Oh, you’d be Mrs Black, wouldn’t you?” the cheery voice of the barmaid, Madam Rosmerta, called.

Hermione blanched as she faced the woman. “How could you possibly know that?”

The woman smiled, her pretty face lighting up even more than it did naturally. “You don’t forget a man like Sirius Black, nor do you miss when he’s finally been caught. I’m surprised he’s not here today,” she commented and glanced around as if he might spring from the floorboards at the mention of his name. “He’s been in often enough.”

“What do you mean?”

Rosmerta turned away, smiling congenially to a new group of students who had managed to fight their way to the bar. She took their orders and money and set the bottles of Butterbeer down in front of them. Busy as she was, she kept her ear on Hermione’s repeated demand for explanation. “Oh, he’s been in every night this week. Odd, I thought, given he lives nowhere near here and the castle is so close,” she commented, taking a pause to serve a few more customers and send a barman out to clean up after some departing students. “But he comes in, sits just there on that stool and has himself three, four Firewhiskeys, sometimes five, and leaves.”

“What?” Hermione and Harry chorused.

“I’m surprised you didn’t know,” she said lightly but had the decency or experience not to laugh. “Last night he said he was off to see the wife. He probably thought better of it.”

“Probably,” Hermione agreed, keeping her face pleasant though inside she was seething. He had come that far every day and never bothered coming to talk to her? He left her to worry and fall behind in her studies because she was so preoccupied with The Bloody Deadline while he chatted up the comely Rosmerta. Inconsiderate git!

“Maybe he was on Order business, too,” Harry commented doubtfully.

“What sort of business would have him sitting alone at a bar drinking?” reasoned the girl.

No, Sirius was not coming to the pub for the Order, though neither of them could imagine what had the man drowning himself nightly so close to Hogwarts for the better part of a week. For the briefest of moments Hermione thought she might have been the reason, but the thought passed almost as quickly as it came. Sirius had never needed drink to confront her, if anything the drink might hinder his intentions, as the one and only time they had been drunk in each other’s company they had not talked or had sex; they had only managed to cuddled. Whatever his feelings might be toward her, cuddling was likely not what he wanted.

“Done?” Harry asked as he set his empty bottle on the counter.

She nodded and started for the door before Rosmerta could come back. The woman was very nice, but Hermione did not want yet another person telling her how absolutely wonderful it was that she had won Sirius.

Won. She scoffed at the very idea. If life were simplified down into a game that one either won or lost, then Hermione certainly would not have consider herself among its winners. Landed with a drunken letch of a husband, how precisely was that winning? Oh, he had his finer points, she was first to admit that. He was unfailingly loyal and brave beyond sense, but his propensity to insult made him difficult to befriend. It was hard to like a man who was constantly saying the wrong thing.

She shook her head and pushed purposefully through the crowd, barrelling out into the brisk air and falling into someone just outside the pub.

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione apologised.

“Wotcher,” the woman replied as best she could through her scarf.

“Tonks?” Harry asked, sounding as shocked as Hermione felt. He stared in open confusion at the woman before them. She looked nothing like herself, all mousy brown and plain. Not a spike or snout in sight. Even her piercings had been removed.

“Hey, Harry, Hermione,” she said about as much life as her flat, brown hair. “I was coming to see you.”

“Is everything all right?”

She sighed and shrugged, and Hermione knew exactly what was wrong. Remus. He had turned her down, the stupid idiot of a man. She had seen them together, it was electric and magic and perfect. Why would he try to stop that?

“Yeah, no, it’s fine,” Tonks said.

“Are you here on Order business, too?” Harry questioned. He had never seen them together – Remus and Tonks – not in the same way Hermione had. He could not know the real source of her despondence. Still, his lack of awareness proved useful as his question brought an interesting reaction to the woman’s features.

Tonks placed an obviously false smile on her face. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said and laughed lightly; it, too, was fake and forced. Such a strained response was proof enough to the two students that there was something happening right under their noses that none of the adults thought they need know about. Anger momentarily flared up with that knowledge. After all they had been through and been forced to do for the ‘greater good’, a bit of transparency was hardly asking for the moon.

“Then why are you here?” Hermione asked, a bit of edge slipping into her voice despite her best efforts.

 “Sirius just wanted me to check up on you.”

“He should have come himself if he was so concerned,” Hermione muttered.

The woman dropped her eyes and started kicking the hard-packed snow with her boot. “I’d rather not be in the middle of your fight, okay?” replied Tonks quietly. “I just wanted to make sure everyone’s safe.”

“Uh… I think I’m going to check out Zonko’s…” Harry said and made his escape. The boy had a lifetime of free joke products courtesy of Weasley Wizarding Wheezes, so Hermione knew he just wanted to avoid having to hear anything she might have to say about Sirius.

Tonks watched him go, a hint of a smile on her face. She clearly thought the same as Hermione.

“What did he want?” Hermione asked, no longer thinking or talking about Harry.

“They think you’re still a target,” the woman admitted as they walked slowly along the street teeming with students. “Sirius was worried they might try something while you were off castle grounds.”

“Why not come himself if that’s what he thinks?”

The woman stopped and stepped sideways into an alley and away from the cheer and sunshine that was too contradictory to both their moods. “If he asks, I didn’t say this,” she said in a hushed warning.

“To ask, he would first have to talk to me,” replied Hermione.

Tonks frowned. “He says you probably don’t want his company any more than The Bloody Law requires.”

Hermione said nothing at first, just chewed on the words. That was unnecessarily considerate of him, giving her so much space. She had never given him any indication that she disliked his company or conversation. Being forced to sleeping together had angered her, but prior to that they had gotten on quite well. That he would suddenly think she despised him was wholly unfounded and utter nonsense, which meant either he was lying or Tonks was.

Much as she hated to place the blame on anyone, she knew it was the only possibility. She also knew Sirius to be an honest man, so it had to be Tonks who was lying or, rather, politely rephrasing Sirius’s actual words to soften the blow and lessen Hermione’s pain.

So based on what Tonks had said, she reasoned that what the man really said was that _he_ didn’t want to be around _her_ any more than was absolutely necessary. Git.

“Well, we’ve another deadline, so like it or not we need to be in each other’s company,” Hermione sighed, not bothering to hide her irritation; it did not occur to her that if Tonks had relayed her husband’s words accurately that her reply would only further his reluctance to bother her, so she continued, “I’ve not heard from him in over a week.”

“I’m heading back to London before dinner,” Tonks said, her face looking even grimmer than before. “I’ll let him know.”

“Thank you,” Hermione replied.

They returned to the bustling street and walked together, though no further conversation passed between them. Hermione was dying to ask about the Order business she and Remus were being sent on, but she knew the woman would not tell her anything. Discretion was important, Hermione knew that better than most. She also knew that discussing the Order of the Phoenix amid the crowded streets of Hogsmeade was far from discreet.

Harry returned and, with him, conversation. The early afternoon was pleasant enough and Tonks stayed with them as guard and friend until they were safely within the wards of the castle. She waved them off and Disapparated with a small ‘crack’.

“Wonder what’s the matter with her,” Harry muttered.

“I wonder what this Order business is,” Hermione said.

“I wonder how I’m going to get rid of Lavender,” Ron grumbled.

Harry sniggered. “About time.”


	23. Gryffindor Courage Fail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a confrontation.

Knowing it was a stupid idea and that she could be caught by Death Eaters and taken to Voldemort or, worse still, expelled, Hermione slunk through the dark tunnel toward the basement of Honeyduke’s. It was eleven o’clock, well past curfew at Hogwarts and closing time for the sweets shop. Most everything in the village was closed at this hour except the Three Broomsticks. If what Rosmerta said was true, and she had no reason to doubt the woman’s sincerity or memory, then Sirius would be sitting at the bar of that pub.

She wrapped herself against the freezing mid-November night and ran from one shadow to the next. Curious and annoyed she may be, but she was not completely blind to the danger she was in. One final dash across the open and unprotected stretch of road and she was relatively safe under the dark, overhanging eves of the pub. Squinting through the windows told her nothing; the frost was so thick on the glass it distorted or completely obscured the view. She would have to go in if she wanted to see with her own eyes that Sirius was really drowning himself in whiskey nightly. What exactly she planned to do with such information, she wasn’t sure; she just wanted it confirmed. And perhaps to talk to him. Or smack him. Or kiss him. Maybe all three.

“Now or never,” she muttered to herself as the door opened and a witch staggered out into the night.

Hermione ran through the door before it closed and ducked into a table half-hidden by a Christmas tree. Peering through the prickly branches, she spied Rosmerta leaning on the bar while she waved her wand at a spilled drink farther down and talked to someone sitting opposite. Her view was obstructed by the tree; she could only see the arm of the person across the bar. It looked like a man, though.

“Just go on up,” the woman said.

“I’d rather not,” the man replied, making Hermione grind her teeth. That was Sirius’s voice. That was Sirius’s arm. That was Sirius on a barstool, not half-a-bleeding-mile away from where she studied and slept and worried herself senseless about The Bloody Deadline.

“You’re in no condition to Apparate yourself home,” replied Rosmerta with the stern voice of experience. “I’ll not have another Splinching on my conscience. Now up you get.”

The man grumbled and groaned and protested and downed another drink, but took the key she had set on the bar before him. Hermione couldn’t see for the branches in her face but she could hear his heavy, uncoordinated steps cross the wooden floor and ascend the stairs to the rooms Rosmerta let out to weary travellers.

“If you’re planning on talking to him, I suggest you go up now before he passes out,” the woman called. “He’s been at it hard tonight, and I don’t think he’ll last much longer.”

Hermione poked her head around the tree. “You knew I was here?”

The woman just smiled and pointed to the stairs. “Third floor, second right.”

The girl ran up the stairs before nerves took her back out the front door. She raced up to the third floor, stumbling to a stop as she reached the landing. Sirius was so drunk he had only just reached the door and was struggling to get the key in the lock. How much did he have to drink?

He looked at her, his glassy eyes barely registering that another person was present before he turned back to the complicated task before him. “Give us a hand, would you?” he grunted.

“Okay,” she replied hesitantly and took the key from his unsteady hands only to have him lean against her.

“Think I might’ve overdone it a bit.”

She could smell he had overdone it and by more than just a bit, but thought better of telling him so. Door successfully unlocked, she pushed him into the room, turning the lights on with a flick of her wand. To her relief it was not the room she had been expecting. This was not the room where they fulfilled their obligation; the duvet was different as were the colour of the walls and the view from the window.

Sirius squinted at her, his inebriated brain working overtime to sort out who she was. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said and jerked himself away from her. “Go back to school.”

“No, I need to talk to you,” she said, though it was beginning to look increasingly like a bad plan as Sirius could barely stand; thinking seemed out of the question.

“’Bout what?” he growled as he started the arduous process of removing himself from his jacket.

“The Bloody Deadline is in three days, Sirius,” she reminded him.

He threw the leather jacket to the floor angrily. “You think I don’t know that? Why you think I been coming here every goddamn night?”

“To get drunk, obviously.”

“To build up the damn courage to talk to you, you prissy lil swot,” he sneered and poked her hard in the chest. “You are very difficult to face. An’ I faced Death Eaters, dammit. I shoul’n’t be worried about you.” The menacing affect he had momentarily vanished as he swayed uneasily on his feet.

“Yes,” she assured him. “You’re very scary. Now perhaps this is a conversation best kept for when you’re sober.”

“Can’t deal with you sober,” he insisted with a shake of his head that transferred to his whole body and Hermione had to rush forward to keep him from falling. “Always say the wrong thing.”

“That’s true.”

He swayed again. Hermione had just enough strength to push him backwards, so he fell onto the bed and not onto to floor. “You gonna stay?”

She panicked and it must have shown.

“Come on… I won’ remember anything in the mornin’,” he assured her drunkenly. She really didn’t believe him, but he kept his hand held out to her as he had when escorting her through his house weeks earlier. Reluctantly, she took it and let him pull her onto the bed and into his arms. He didn’t say anything else, just held her close and kissed the top of her head.

Her suspicions had been correct. Drinking only led to cuddling where she and Sirius were concerned.

oOo

Morning came and stabbed her in the eyes. She groaned and rolled away from the painful light, burying her head in a pillow that smelled oddly of whiskey. It was terribly hard for a pillow, too, come to think of it. And since when did pillows hug back?

‘Oh bloody hell,’ she thought and leapt from the bed.

Sirius grumbled and groped across the duvet in his sleep, searching for the lost body heat. If she moved quickly, she could escape back to the castle and avoid facing a hung-over Sirius, angry professors or demanding roommates. Then she would have to try to talk to Sirius again tonight, and she suspected the results would not be much different. Still, fleeing seemed like such a good idea.

‘Loo,’ she decided and ran silently to the washroom, locking herself in. Relief was short-lived; just as she was patting her face dry on a towel, the doorknob turned and rattled and Sirius began cursing on the other side. He was obviously still drunk from the previous night.

“Wha’the hellsamatter with this thing?” he asked, slamming his hand against the door and trying again to open it, as if giving it a sound thumping and turning the doorknob with more force would really work.

A decision had to be made. She could climb out the window, fall safely into a snowdrift and escape back to the castle, pretending none of this had happened. Or she could be the mature adult everyone claimed her to be, open the door and face her husband as she had intended to the night before. Again, fleeing seemed the better option, but it would solve none of their problems. The deadline was now two days away and if the previous week and night were any indication, Sirius would simply drink himself to sleep before he managed enough courage to come up to the castle.

Fine pair of Gryffindors they were, one hiding in a washroom, the other in a bottle.

“Just a minute,” she called, or at least tried to. It came out as a squeak, but Sirius still heard her.

The persistent tugging on the doorknob stopped instantly. “Hermione?”

“Yes. I’ll just be a minute,” she said with a bit more confidence.

“Fuck, oh fuck…” Sirius cursed to himself, though it came out rather loudly. She could practically hear the man tugging at his hair in panic. Then she really did hear the heavy zippers of his jacket scratching against the floor as he struggled to gather it and run for the door simultaneously.

He was running away?

He was running away from _her_?

She threw the door wide and hurried into his path before he could escape.

“Sirius, we need to talk,” she said, trying very hard not to find amusement in his appearance as he fought to pull his jacket on the wrong way round.

“No… stuff to do… Order business…” he muttered and tried to step around her.

“You don’t have any Order business. They’re keeping you out of it because your job is to keep me safe,” replied Hermione sternly. “ _I_ am your Order business.”

He shook his head, “Too drunk to deal with you.”

“Last night you said you couldn’t deal with me sober, either,” she practically laughed. First he had to be intoxicated to talk, now he needed to be teetotal. It seemed there was no way he was capable of approaching her.

A gentle knock came at the door and Rosmerta opened it a fraction. “Morning,” the barmaid smiled. “Thought a touch of the hangover cure might do you some good.”

“Oi!” Sirius shouted. “Might’ve been in the middle of something here. Do you mind?”

The woman laughed. “Please, you were so drunk you couldn’t have seduced a prostitute.” She deposited a tray on the writing desk and left them with a knowing smile and a wink.

Sirius cursed the woman, her opinions, her liquor and her potions, but downed the brimming goblet. Coughing as the revolting concoction stung his throat, he dropped into the chair and brooded until the potion took effect. Once he was free of his intoxication, his mood only darkened.

“So talk,” he said, not bothering to look at her.

That was hardly the welcoming invitation to discourse she would have liked, and it did nothing to ease her nerves. The words refused to come. She cleared her throat and tried again, but nothing happened. His demanding glare did little to assist her.

“The deadline,” she managed after several false starts.

“Is in two days, I know,” he growled. “You’re here now. So let’s just get this over with. That’s apparently what you want.” His voice was heavy with spite as he snapped at her. It felt like an insult to her character, as if she was strange or stupid for not wanting to spend hours rolling around naked with him.

“Oh, yes, you’d love to make it last forever, wouldn’t you?” she spat. “Pig.”

His face contorted into something hateful and not at all attractive. “Last I checked you didn’t have any problems with my stamina. What changed? That I slept with someone else before you? That’s prudish even by your standards, Hermione.”

“I don’t give a damn how many women have fallen for your charms,” she glared at him. “But don’t go telling me you’ve not had any for twenty years and expect me to take it well.”

“It’s the truth!” he said. “I was in prison for twelve years, on the run for another two – not exactly a situation ripe for romance and hot sex.”

“I know that!” she shouted. It was true. She did know that the past fifteen years of his life were far from easy. She did know that Azkaban and hiding in Grimmauld Place were unlikely to lead to any hook-ups. So what was it that was really annoyed her? It wasn’t the confession of forced celibacy so much as the way he had said it and what that confession had made her feel.

Readying herself for a scathing laugh, she continued, “Telling me that I’m the first in that long makes me feel like some bloody blow up doll. That all you needed was a body and you didn’t care whose.”

Neither sarcastic comeback nor scornful laughter met her ears. His anger vanished abruptly; the hideous contortion of his features transformed into amusement, though his eyes and posture still spoke of something sharp and dangerous. Before he spoke and not really knowing why, she took a step away from him.

“ _You_ are no blow up doll,” he said is a quiet purr. “A blow up doll wouldn’t giggle when I massaged its backside.” He took a step closer, negating her subconscious step back. “It wouldn’t mew my name whenever I bit its stomach. It wouldn’t constrict so tight that I thought I might break.” He stalked her into a corner, locking her in place between his arms.

“Not even Fred and George are clever enough to make a doll as glorious as you.”


	24. Honestly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a deal is struck.

Trying to stay angry at Sirius was near impossible when the man was whispering encouragements between kisses. He called her glorious, a goddess, brilliant, unparalleled and all manner of things that Hermione quickly lost interest in as he stripped her of her clothes and kissed his way down to her inner thighs. She loved when he kissed her thighs; she loved when he kissed any bit of her, really, but the inner thighs were by far her favourite.

It took virtually no time at all for Hermione to forget why she was angry in the first place. Perhaps that had been his aim or perhaps he was simply that good. As he nibbled and licked his way back up to her mouth, she decided it really didn’t matter what he said so long as he kept doing what he did so well.

“Have I told you how glad I am that you’re married to me and not Fred?” asked Sirius. “I don’t think he would have lasted five minutes in bed with you.”

“Should I tell him you said that?” she asked and somehow managed to sound threatening despite being overwhelmingly pleased by the comment.

A grin, slow and devious, spread across his face. “I do hope you will,” he said. “Let the poor sod know what he’s missing.”

“You are such a git,” she laughed.

He pulled away, his smile falling. “A git, am I? Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” she nearly shouted as she locked her legs around his hips and pulled his mouth back to hers. “Don’t you dare tease me like that.”

“I love it when you’re bossy,” he smirked and kissed her hard, sweeping his tongue into her mouth and taking every inch as his own.

They met the deadline easily, then met it again for good measure.

Just to be on the safe side, Hermione thought they ought to meet it a third time because ‘you can never be too careful with Ministry bureaucrats; they might not have been paying attention the first two times’.

Unlike the previous early morning she had spent beside Sirius, Hermione was not expecting awkwardness. However, she was anticipating something stupid to come out of the man’s mouth. How could a man so clever at magic and brilliant at seducing women in bed be so rubbish at knowing what to say half the time? Perhaps it was just her that he was rubbish at talking to. Right on cue Sirius opened his mouth to say something. Her hand flew up and pressed firmly across his lips to keep him from speaking.

“Don’t say anything. I don’t care if it was going to be a compliment, just keep it to yourself. You have a horrible habit of angering me without meaning to, and I would dearly love to go through the next two weeks not dreading our next deadline,” she told him.

His eyebrow lifted along with the corners of his mouth. He spoke against her hand, the movement of his lips and stubble tickling her palm.

“I’m going to regret this,” she muttered, removing her hand. “What did you say?”

“I said,” he grinned impishly, “you aren’t exactly innocent in all this, either. Hiding and running away and leaving me to think that you hate me.”

She frowned and readied her rebuttal, but his hand mimicked her motion and locked the words inside her mouth. “Don’t you dare deny it,” he said, eyes narrowing as if in threat. “You turned cold and insisted on leaving me all alone in Hogsmeade last month. What was I meant to think?”

“That you are callous and have no idea what to say to me,” she replied into his hand.

“I don’t know what you said, but I’m certain it’s nonsense. I was perfectly amiable in every way; I let you have your thinking time despite being quite desperate to never set foot in Azkaban again. I think I was more than reasonable in all this, and you had to go and make your little teacup tempest again,” he said, tearing his hand away. “How am I at fault when you are so sensitive about my previous sexual endeavours?”

“Git,” she spat. “You—”

“A deal, then,” he interrupted, his hands raised in supplication.

Remembering that his last offer had gone rather well for the both of them until he opened his stupid mouth, Hermione just crossed her arms over her bare chest and waited for him to continue.

“Absolute honesty.”

“What sort of deal is that?” she demanded.

“A very good one,” he insisted with that winning smile she was beginning to love to hate. “I will say what I think and if it offends you, rather than stomping away and hiding in the castle for two weeks, you will say what you really think. How am I to know you’re offended unless you say something? It’s not as if we live together and I see you glaring at me daily over breakfast. I’d like to know when I’ve been an idiot, thank you.”

“What if you’re always an idiot?”

“Then I would hope you would tell me,” he smiled.

“Well, I think you’re an idiot for suggesting such a deal,” she said. “You being absolutely honest is possibly the worst plan you’ve ever come up with given that your honesty tends to make me angry. Perhaps saying nothing at all would be better.”

“See, it’s working already,” he said and kissed her cheek. “I think we’re very well off for next time, don’t you?”

Unwilling to admit that he might have been right, she just kept her arms crossed and scowled. “What time is it? I have class at ten.”

“You’ve got an hour,” he said. “Plenty of time to pretend you were in your bed all night like a good little girl. Unless you’d rather have another go just to make absolutely certain we won’t get another visit from the Ministry…” He wiggled his eyebrows and smirked suggestively down at her.

It took monumental effort to turn him down. He was willing and naked and gorgeous, but she would have to be dying, petrified or held captive to miss class. “No, I don’t want to have to deal with Lavender again.”

“Lavender,” he repeated, a deep frown etching his brow. “The annoying one that talks too much? I didn’t like her before, now I absolutely hate her. If she’s the only reason you don’t want to stay, I can do something about that.” He sounded positively lethal. Hermione could not imagine what sort of thing he might say or do to the girl. This was, after all, the man who had sent Snape into the Shrieking Shack while Remus was transformed during the full moon. His idea of a subtle deterrent might result in permanent bodily harm. While Lavender was far from her favourite person, she was not about to let Sirius do anything to land himself back in Azkaban.

“No,” she said quickly. “That’s quite alright. I hate missing class.”

He chuckled. “Fine. Let’s get you back to the castle.”

She shifted self-consciously to the edge of the bed while Sirius stood and strolled easily to the washroom completely unperturbed by the fact that he was naked. Admittedly, he had nothing to be ashamed of. As soon as he was out of sight, she dashed around the room collecting all the bits of clothes that Sirius had tossed carelessly off the bed.

“Where are my underwear?” she grumbled and threw on the rest of the pieces she could find.

“I know where they are,” Sirius smiled from the doorway, still naked Hermione noted with a blush, “but I’m not telling.”

“Just give me my knickers.”

“No,” he said. “I know for fact you’ve got some sexy lacy things and a bodice up in that tower. I want to see you in them. If I have to steal your knickers one by one to make that happen, then so be it.”

She nearly laughed. A grown man was stealing her underwear? Ridiculous.

“What’s the point in lacy underthings? Our clothes never stay on long enough for it to matter what I’m wearing,” she commented. It sounded awful, but considering that they only spent time together for The Bloody Deadlines, all they really did was have sex.

“That is not the point,” he insisted seriously. “They were a present, and presents must be used. It’s etiquette. Besides, very soon you’ll be spending Christmas holidays with me and I would like to think that there’s something special hiding under that jumper just for me.”

Sighing, she said, “Keeping with your honesty bargain: If you’re so eager to see such ridiculous underwear, you’ve more than enough money to go buy some.”

“That is a thought,” he agreed as he began his slow journey around the room to collect his own clothes. “But, honestly, I know you wouldn’t wear them if you had something sensible, white and cotton to wear instead. So I’ll stick with my original plan of slowly removing all sensible, white, cotton options until you have no choice.”

“I can just go buy more sensible cotton knickers, you know,” she countered.

“Which I would only steal, thus making it a waste,” he grinned. “I know how much you hate wasted effort.”

Given their agreement for total honesty, it was extremely tempting to ask why he always won their arguments, but she didn’t think he needed further reinforcement; he was clearly used to winning in nearly all his endeavours. How she would love to find something she could best him at and force continued exposure to it on him – like wizard chess for her or poker for poor Dr Bradshaw. For once she was quite pleased that their marriage would last the rest of their lives, for it would give her plenty of time to find the _one_ thing at which Sirius was not just average but properly bad.

“You’re thinking again,” he purred in her ear.

“I’m always thinking,” replied the girl in a haughty sniff.

“Not always,” he smirked. “I know a few things that can shut your brain off. If you’d like I can demonstrate them now…” He laid a kiss behind her ear, knowing the soft skin was more sensitive there and that she would giggle and lean into him for more.

She did giggle at the feel of his lips and she did lean into him because it felt wonderful, but her brain did not sputter to a stop as it had that first night. “Sirius,” she sighed and pushed him away. “I don’t want to miss class.”

“Spoilsport,” he muttered and gave it one last Gryffindor try before he stepped away. “All right, I’ll let you leave this time, but I demand compensation for my losses.”

“And what precisely have you lost?”

“You!” he said as if it was both obvious and the most devastating thing he might have been denied. “Your legs and your mouth and your shoulder–“

“Just the one shoulder?” she smirked.

“Well, the left one has that birthmark on it. I like that birthmark,” he grinned. “The right one’s fine, I suppose.”

“Yes, yes,” she shook her head, amused and amazed that he was so familiar with her birthmarks already. They had only spent two nights (and very early mornings) together. “And what did you have in mind for compensation?”

“I was thinking something in lace, preferably strapless.”

Breathing an irritated sigh, Hermione shoved past him for the door. “You and that bloody bodice. Fine, I’ll wear it just to shut you up. Now will you put some pants on so we can leave?”

“Bossy little swot,” he muttered under his breath. Oddly, it wasn’t an insult as it had been when he was drunk the night before. This time it sounded almost affectionate.

Daring to test that supposition, she turned and smiled. “You like me when I’m bossy, remember?”

“That I do,” he grinned. “I just wish you would boss me in the direction of the bed and not the door.”

“Well, if you bothered coming to Hogsmeade over the weekend instead of coming here only to get drunk during the week, then maybe I would boss you into bed,” she snipped. It was the honesty bargain again. His drinking himself stupid nightly really did annoy her, but she had worried what he would say if she told him as much. She hoped that her criticism would be taken better when presented as teasing and with the promise of more sex if he wasn’t drunk.

Sirius did not even pause. “In my defence, I was getting drunk to be able to deal with you,” he said. “Now that you aren’t angry at me thanks to my brilliant plan, I don’t need to be bothered with that. I can just sneak straight into your room.”

“You most certainly will not!” she cried. “I have roommates – nosey, gossiping roommates!”

“Relax,” he smirked. “I wouldn’t.”

“Good.”

“Might I just point out that you didn’t mind the idea of my coming, only my coming when your roommates were in,” his eyes lit with familiar mischief. “So, if I could find a way to keep them out for the night, you would have no objection to my paying you a visit?”

Hermione huffed and left the room, not caring one bit that he was only half dressed and that she had no guard to see her safely to the castle.

“Should I take that as an A-OK on that plan?” he called after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OUTLANDER SPOILERS!!!
> 
> I promise I did NOT rip off the arranged marriage/honesty bargain from Gabaldon. I didn't get around to reading the first book of the series until last year (in preparation for the Starz series [ZOMG, LOVE!]), a solid two years after I'd finished this thing. Great minds, yo. Great minds.


	25. Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which is Hermione is bossy and Lavender sage...ish.

Thoroughly annoyed by her husband’s puerile behaviour and flagrant disregard for school rules regarding members of the opposite gender in the girls’ dorms, Hermione stomped her way out into the snow-covered village. It was beautiful, especially with the winter sun low on the horizon throwing long, slanting shadows. She wished they had managed to wake up a bit sooner so she could take the long way back and enjoy the view.

Head on sideways, admiring the icicles glinting off the roof of Zonko’s, Hermione did not see the man in front of her until she had walked into him.

“Careful there,” said the man, his hands on her arms to keep her from falling.

“I’m sorry,” she apologised.

He was an odd sort of man, slightly asymmetrical, as if he had not been put together quite right and had come out lumpy. His smile was even lop-sided, though not in the sexy way Sirius smiled when he had devilish thoughts in his head. This off-centre smile was more akin to a leer.

“What’s a little thing like you doing out all alone?” he asked, fingers digging in to her arms as she tried to step away. “Surely, you aren’t scared, are you? After I just saved you falling in the snow…”

“No,” she said. “Of course not. Thank you, but I have to get back to school.” Her reply should have sounded confident and assured, but his tongue was peeking out from his mouth, licking his lips eagerly as his eyes bore into her. He did frighten her.

“Come now. I can walk you there. Used to attend Hogwarts myself.” His offer sounded in no way kind.

“No, thank you,” she insisted as forcefully as she could. “My husband is coming along in a moment.”

“Husband? Is that what you call Sirius Black?” he sneered. “Useless coward, I call him. What would he do to stop me stealing a reward for my services?”

“Reward?” she repeated in disgust as the man’s fingers brushed the side of her face. It felt in no way affectionate, especially as the rough tips of his fingers began to slide down her skin painfully, grating like sandpaper and burning with friction. His fingers reached her chin and gripped her hard. There, too, his fingers burned her skin. It pained her to feel it, but it must have scalded the horrid man. He tore himself away with a scream and shoved his bare hand into a snowdrift. She could see steam rising as the snow melted and boiled from his wounds.

It was the blood magic at work protecting her and punishing him.

“CARROW!” Sirius bellowed and exploded from the Three Broomsticks. He shot out hexes silently and with painful accuracy despite how angry he looked, and he did look angry. Hermione had never seen him look so frightening, not even when they first met in the Shrieking Shack. She dove for cover around the corner of the nearest building and pulled out her wand, a defensive spell on the tip of her tongue, but her magic was redundant in this fight. Sirius was driving Carrow through the village with hexes Hermione had never seen before; anything she might have thrown would be pointless, especially as Carrow, burned, bruised, broken and bleeding, managed enough wherewithal to Disapparate with a deafening ‘crack’.

“Stay!” Sirius ordered, pointing for her to remain hidden. She glared, but kept close to the building.

He stood on the hard-packed snow, turning slowly, listening and watching every corner for signs of another attack. He stood so long searching for a new enemy that his breathing calmed; instead of the near-continuous cloud of condensation leaving his mouth, the puffs of hot air were separated by a few seconds. His flushed skin paled as the adrenaline left him. Hermione was certain he could feel the cold against his bare face and chest, but he showed no signs of it as he turned his anger at her.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he shouted at her. “You should have waited in the pub!”

“Don’t you yell at me!” she yelled. “I was just attacked!”

“I know; I felt it,” he glared hard around the quiet village again, as if Carrow was still there, just out of sight. “Bastard touched my wife. Should have ripped his fingers off for that.”

“Let’s go,” she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him back into the warm pub. It wouldn’t do for him to go around getting a reputation as a crazy man stalking the streets of Hogsmeade or to catch pneumonia and die because he was too angry to be bothered putting a shirt on.

Dressed and slightly subdued, Sirius walked Hermione through the secret passage beneath Honeyduke’s to the castle. It took all his powers of persuasion and charm and quite a lot of money spent on cauldron cakes and sugar quills to gain access to the basement when the shop was open. She tried talking Sirius into using the Shrieking Shack passage, which would not arouse the suspicions of the villagers, but he flatly refused to consider it, insisting on using a passage that would take her directly into the castle.

Sitting in the Great Hall for breakfast, free from Sirius’s influence, she was able to think once again. The thoughts that came to her only made her angry.

“What have I done?” Ron asked as he looked worriedly across the table at her.

“You haven’t done anything,” she sighed. “It’s me.”

“Oh. Well, what have you done?”

She shook her head, uncertain if she could adequately explain to anyone what the problem was. Being married to Sirius did not bother her. He was wonderful, though she admitted she would need more time in his company outside the bedroom to really know for certain how wonderful he was. So far, however, he was attentive and always came to her rescue. It was that she still needed rescuing that truly annoyed her.

“I’m tired of being a target,” she said after a lengthy pause. “I got married so that I wouldn’t be one anymore, but they still sneak up when we least expect it. Malfoy and now Carrow… It’s like I’ll never be able to go out on my own ever again.”

“We’ll beat him,” Harry assured her quietly. “I’ll beat him.”

“I know you will,” she smiled, though it seemed the wrong thing to do considering how worried and saddened she was that her friend would have to face the darkest wizard who had ever lived. Dumbledore was training him now, as odd as that training was; knowledge was power, she knew that better than most her age. Perhaps learning about the enemy’s past would help Harry gain an edge in the present.

Looking for something else to talk about, she asked, “Ron, where’s Lavender?”

The boy groaned and dropped his head to the table. “She’s mad at me because I forgot our two week anniversary. Two weeks! I mean, Merlin’s beard, what’s so bloody special about that?”

Harry patted him on the back consolingly, though his snort diminished his believability.

“Piss off!” Ron cursed and hit his head against the table again.

Sufficiently distracted, they hurried to Herbology. Now that she was no longer consumed with fear about their future deadlines, Hermione easily fell back into her old routine of homework, reading, revising and more reading; she caught up on all her work and all the extra credit assignments that most professors gave without her even asking for them. She was as close to happy as she had been in months.

“Someone looks pleased with themselves,” Sirius commented. His voice was low but it was enough to make Hermione scream and draw her wand. The man just smiled, lying comfortably on her bed as if it was his own. “You need to relax, pet. Come have a lie down.”

Panic overtook her. She raced to the door and slammed it shut.

“Ooh, I like where this is going,” he grinned. “You might want to lock and silence it while you’re over there.”

“Keep your voice down, you git!” she hissed. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you could get in? Why would you do something so stupid?”

“To prove I could, naturally,” replied the man, a smug smile settling firmly on his face. “You didn’t seem overly impressed by my plan, so I thought you needed convincing that I can be quite stealthy and discreet when I choose to be. I even have a plan for keeping your roommates out.”

“No,” she shook her head, dreading what sort of distraction he might have thought up to keep Lavender and Parvati away.

“It’s quite a good plan,” he insisted. “No dungbombs or anything childish, either.”

A smile was fighting to erupt on her face at his eagerness, but she had to be firm. There were lines which she was determined not to cross and having sex with Sirius in her dormitory was one such line. If he wanted to sleep with her, he would have to wait until the weekend like any of the other, proper husbands at Hogwarts. Although, she did suspect that several of the married couples at school were sneaking around in the unused classrooms or more hard-to-reach broom cupboards; she had yet to meet any on her Prefect rounds.

“You’re thinking about it,” he grinned. “Could you possibly think about it while putting on that bodice of yours?”

Idiot of a man. Any consideration she might have given it flew out the tower window. He could just fly away, too. She frowned as she realised there was no broom. He had not flown up. There was no fireplace in the dorm either, only a small wood-burning heater at the centre of the room. The stairs collapsed under the weight of any male who was not a professor. By all logic, his presence was impossible.

“Sirius, how did you get up here?”

“Animagus,” he reminded her. “The stairs don’t care what sex a dog is.”

“Good, that means you can get out the same way you came,” she pointed to the door.

He sighed and stretched out on her bed. “But I only just got here. No ‘hello’ or kiss? Fine wife you are,” he shook his head sadly.

“Fine,” she grumbled, marching over to the bed. She kissed him quickly on the cheek. “Hello. Now go away before you’re caught.”

Clearly dissatisfied with her greeting, he pulled her down onto the bed with him, his long arms wrapping around her tightly. “I meant a proper kiss, Mrs Black,” he insisted and took the kiss he wanted, a slow, deep kiss that had her gripping his hair instantly.

Sirius was a bad influence. His lips urged her ever closer to crossing the line, somehow making her fingers work the buttons of his shirt and her legs straddle his hips. That uncrossable line, once heavy and dark, was growing lighter and easier to ignore. Did it really matter what bed they were in? It was a bed. The room was empty save the pair of them, her roommates off doing… something; surely, they had time enough for at least one go.

The strangled sob from just outside the door told her something very different.

“Lavender,” she groaned and hurried to set her clothes right. She was just throwing herself down on the empty bed with a book as the other girl pushed open the door and collapsed dramatically onto her own mattress.

“He’s horrid!” Lavender cried. “Completely ignored our anniversary.”

Hermione frowned; that was one of her very good friends Lavender was insulting. She felt absolutely no sympathy for the girl as she pointed out the obvious contradiction in her thinking, “Well, ‘anniversary’ implies that you ought to have been together a full year, not just two weeks.”

The girl glared angrily across the room, her tear-stained cheers flushing red, “How can you be married and know nothing about anniversaries?” she demanded, her voice rising as she continued, “They are the single most important sign of his love and commitment! When he forgets an anniversary, even a two-week anniversary, he’s really saying that he doesn’t love you!”

“It’s just a two-week anniversary, Lavender,” Hermione sighed. “Forgetting just means he’s a boy and rather stupid about girls’ feelings.”

Lavender sobbed her reply and threw herself down onto the pillow.

Hermione watched the girl cry for a moment, considering if she might have a point. Not that two weeks together was worthy of some grand gesture of love and commitment, but that anniversaries mattered. Her only previous relationship had not lasted long enough to reach any great milestones, so she was no expert; when it came to most things girly, she was no expert. Perhaps Lavender knew what she was talking about. Should she and Sirius be putting on some kind of act about their anniversary, too? Taking a holiday or throwing a party as her parents sometimes did?

They were nearing two months of marriage. While hardly a massive accomplishment given that she spent most of her time in the castle and he at Grimmauld Place, it was impressive that they had managed it. She thought for sure the Ministry would have declared the marriage void by this point or that they might have tried killing one another.

“Is two months together important?” she wondered aloud.

“ _So_ important!” insisted Lavender. “Every month you’re together for the first year is an anniversary. You need to show each other how much you care.”

“How much I care…” echoed Hermione dully as she considered how one might say ‘thank you for saving me from Death Eaters by sleeping with me twice a month’. She likely would not be finding a card for such an occasion at the local stationary shop.

A whine broke into her increasingly confused thoughts. It was quiet and as soft as the fur that now brushed against her hand. Sirius – Snuffles, rather – was petting himself on the hand that she had let fall from the edge of the bed. He nudged at her fingertips insistently, his enormous eyes working on some inner soft-spot that always melted at the sight of something with round, innocent eyes like animals and house-elves. Even knowing he was not a real dog, she wanted to pet him.

“Oh! Hello, puppy,” Lavender cooed and raced over to him. Hermione expected him to roll over and let the girl rub his belly, glutton for attention that he was, but as Lavender drew closer his posture shifted and the fur bristled on his back. He snapped at her outstretched hand and growled, low and threatening, making his dislike of the girl plain.

“Bad!” Hermione chided, hopping off the bed to stand between them. She could not help the smile that pulled at her mouth as she looked down at Snuffles, glaring around her leg. Luckily, Lavender had retreated to her bed, climbing onto it as if the mere three feet height difference would keep the dog from attacking.

“How did that vicious thing get in here?” Lavender shrieked.

“A first year must have let it in,” she muttered, thinking it a perfectly reasonable suggestion. “I’ll make sure it gets out without hurting anyone.”

“Be careful!”

“It’s just a dog,” said Hermione, nudging him out the door and through the common room before anyone could see him. It was a good thing Seamus was causing a scene about Ron cheating at wizard chess otherwise there was no way she would have managed to escape unnoticed, though she did feel bad that Harry was missing the opportunity to spend time with his Godfather, even if he was a dog.

“Just a dog?” Sirius gaped as soon as the portrait was securely shut behind them. “ _Just_ a dog? I am so much more than _just_ a dog.”

“Yes, you’re terribly frightening and a masterful prankster. Now go away before you get in trouble.”

“Oh, let him get into trouble!” The Fat Lady cried. “It’s no less than he deserves, the scoundrel!”

“Well, I know when I’m unwanted.” Sirius turned and left without another word.


	26. Senses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ginny is smug.

“Have you heard from Sirius lately?” Hermione asked Harry the moment he sat down at breakfast. All her efforts went into not sounding as panicked as she felt, so she had nothing left to spare for patience or pleasantries.

Sirius had not spoken to her in a week. Admittedly, for them, that was not strange, but he had promised absolute honesty. When he had not come back into the castle, she could only assume that he was angry at her. She had written to him, a first for them. That had been three days ago, more than enough time for an owl to reach London. If he was not replying to letters, he might have been injured by Death Eaters. She found the idea horrible but oddly comforting that it might be bodily harm and not anger keeping him away.

Harry’s nod punctured her bubble of morbid hope. “Yeah, we talked in the fire last night.”

“Was he all right?”

“Yeah, fine. Why?”

One worry replaced another: Sirius was alive, safe and well, which could only mean that he really was properly cross with her. Had this been how Sirius felt when she had left him so coldly after their first night together? It was difficult to believe that he was angry at her; her words had been playfully meant, not intended to insult him, but he had not thought his truthful admission of celibacy would have hurt her either.

She did not like this uncertainty. She felt it like heartburn, a pain in her chest and gut as her anxiety ate away at her from the inside out.

Sirius was hardly the first person to be angry at her, nor was he the first to cease speaking to her because of his anger; Harry and Ron had refused to even sit near her after she had turned the Firebolt over to Professor McGonagall third year. At least with that incident she knew the reason and understood it on some level, even if it was utter rubbish. With this, his reasons were a mystery and she could not stand it.

Strange as it was to admit, the fact that it was Sirius made it all the more difficult. He had been the man to step up and save her. To keep her save, he sacrificed the thing that was most precious to him after twelve years in Azkaban: His Freedom. For that alone he deserved happiness in any way she could provide it. If that meant biting down on her occasionally rather sharp criticisms and reigning in her bossiness, then so be it. It would not be easy, but she would try for him.

Since Sirius was not there, she had to practice on the people who were – Harry, Ron, Ginny and Neville.

It was painful having to watch Harry and Ron goof off when they ought to be studying, but she managed not to snap at them. “Don’t you think you should be doing your homework?” she suggested quietly, so quietly they didn’t even hear her over their own laughter.

“Okay,” Ginny said, closing her book and setting it to one side. “What is with you? You never let them get away with that.”

“Nothing,” Hermione insisted as gently as she could.

It only seemed to convince the girl that something really was wrong because she reached out and put her hand against Hermione’s forehead.  “Not running a temperature…”

“I’m not sick,” she huffed. “I’m trying to be less bossy.”

Ginny looked as if she was torn between laughing and frowning. “But that isn’t you.”

“I know, but I was bossy to Sirius and now he isn’t speaking to me.”

“Wait.” Ginny edged closer, her grin looking disturbingly similar to Lavender’s when she found out the identity of Hermione’s fiancé. Her voice low, she continued, “Are you trying to improve yourself for him?”

“What? No,” said Hermione. “I just want to be nicer to him. He’s done a lot marrying me and he deserves an easy marriage.”

“That is practically romantic!” she cried and gripped Hermione in a painful hug. “I knew you would fall for him if you tried!”

“Not wanting him to be miserable is not the same as being in love,” Hermione wheezed through the girl’s tight grip.

Ginny released her physically only to lock onto her again with a hard glare. “Will you stop being so bloody stubborn! You like sleeping with him. You like spending time with him. You want him to be happy, and you’re willing to change to make it happen. That sounds an awful lot like love to me.”

“If I was doing it for Harry, would you still say that?” Hermione demanded, all thoughts of gentleness gone.

“You don’t love Harry?”

“Well, of course I do,” she said, glancing over at the messy black hair of her best friend. “He’s like my brother, you know that.”

“My point exactly,” Ginny smirked. “There are a lot of different kinds of love. And I think you’re very close to having some form of it for your husband.”

“Oh, will you just give it a rest,” Hermione huffed, standing abruptly. “Stop goofing off and do your homework!” she shouted at the bewildered boys in front of her before stomping angrily from the common room.

Her Prefect rounds were unpleasant. Everyone she came across made her furious by their very presence, especially when they were couples holding hands and giggling. After finding a pair of cooing Hufflepuffs down the third floor of the East wing, the girl went out of her way to find the most distant and hard-to-reach corners of the castle. She told herself it was to avoid people, but really she wanted take points off whomever she found hiding in the far-flung broom cupboards.

Eleven o’clock saw the girl marching to the Divination tower, convinced that she would discover someone hiding in the tiny storeroom one floor below the trapdoor that lead to the incense- and ottoman-filled realm of Sibyll Trelawney. As she stalked up the curving stone stairs, she slowed and let her feet fall silently so she might better ambush the people in the storage room. There had to be at least two considering how much noise she heard.

Bracing herself for all manner of cursing and levels of undress, she threw the door wide open. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

Her practiced outrage was wasted.

The storeroom was empty.

“What the…” she wondered aloud, stepping into the miniscule room and scanning the limited space. Save the spiders, there was no living creature among the crates and ancient traveling trunks. It was impossible. Someone had been banging around just seconds before. Peeves was never one to hide and the ghosts were incapable of moving anything, let alone doing so with enough force to have the sound echoing off the tower walls. What could it have been?

The door swung shut, slamming solidly against the frame, with Hermione inside. In the darkness and eerie silence that followed the ear-splitting noise, she heard the click of the lock.

“Hey!” she called, more panicked than angry now. “Let me out!”

She waited, listening hard. What did she expect to hear? Footsteps as someone ran away, the voice of a gloating Slytherin or laughter from Peeves, but she heard none of those.

“Alohomora!” she cried, but the door remained locked.

“You’re in a bit of trouble now,” a quiet whisper commented in the darkness.

Hermione screamed at the unexpected voice and its proximity in the tight space between the four-foot-tall travelling trunk and the teetering tower of crates where she and some other person were now trapped.

‘Think!’ she shouted at herself. ‘There was no one here. It’s probably a ghost drawn to the noise same as you… but then why hadn’t I seen it on the stairs.’

“Who’s there?” she demanded, willing her voice steady.

“I think you know,” the whisper was somehow even closer. A hand caught her arm and pulled the wand from her fist before she could even think the spell to light up the room. She felt the size and warmth of it and knew that hand had to belong to a very real, very live, very male person.

She ran through her pitifully limited options, but found she had no way of escaping. The door was locked. He had her wand. Retreating to some far corner was impossible; her back was already pressed against the traveling trunk. Even as she managed to find a fraction of an inch more room, she could feel the air passing over her when he breathed out. Her only hope was to identify this boy and report him to the Headmaster later. Her list of available senses was as limited as her options. Without light to see, she was blind. He was keeping his words low and brief, so she could not recognise his voice. The musty smells in the storeroom would have overpowered the most offensive of body odours, so any subtle colognes or personal scents he might have carried were lost on her. Those three gone, she was left with the sense of touch; she could feel him in the hope of finding an identifying scar or feature. That was hardly an option.

There was one human sense that she had neglected, one which he was quick to remind her of. The sense of taste.

In the inky blackness, she could not see it coming. She felt the heat of his body as the already minute space between them fell to nothing. He was there, in front of her, pressing her harder against the battered trunk. His hands found her face in the darkness and helped guide his mouth to hers, all in the time it took her to take in breath enough to protest.

“Don’t—“ Her words stopped instantly as she clamped her lips firmly together. His tongue coaxed and teased tantalisingly, but she refused him entrance.

Whoever he was, he kissed very well for a blackguard. If he hadn’t locked her in a storage room and forced himself on her, she might actually have enjoyed his attentions. As it was, she was torn between digging her fingernails into his face and letting him continue to kiss her. Either way he would be in considerable pain before long. Carrow had not managed to keep his hand on her face for a full minute before the blood magic scalded him. Concern further furrowed her brow; Hermione could not be certain, but she was convinced this horrid boy had been on her more than one minute.

‘What will Sirius think?’ she fretted.

He would feel the touch of another man on her lips, know that it had gone on far too long for a friendly peck. He could not know that she was being held against her will in a space so tight she could not even lift her knee in self-defence. He would think she wanted this, that she chose to kiss someone other than him. An easy, happy marriage, that was what she had wanted to give him, not one where his wife was hiding away in dirty cupboards snogging heaven only knew who while he was miles away and powerless to stop her.

Spurred on by her desire to make him happy and proud, she struggled against this thief who stole her kiss and would likely try to steal more of her. She brought her hands up to gouge at his face. Little good it did her; her arms were caught the second her nails grazed his cheek. He wrenched her arms behind her back and gripped them so tightly she gasped in pain even as she told herself not to. It was all the invitation the rogue needed; he swept into her mouth, caressing her tongue with his.

‘Bastard,’ Hermione spat, as offended by the action as with how good he was at it.

Strangely, despite her outrage, a spark of the familiar lit on her tongue. She could taste him, this disgusting potential-rapist, and he tasted like cognac. She had tasted it before, fine and smooth and expensive. Daring to hope, she inhaled. Close as he was, his unique smells were not quite drowned out by the mildew of the storeroom. There! Just barely detectable beneath the overwhelming stink of the musty room she caught the glorious smell of tobacco, leather and oranges; a combination of tastes and smells unique to one man – Sirius Black.

It took surprisingly little strength to pull her hands free. After that initial twist to make her gasp, he must have loosened his grip. Her hands flew to his hair, gripping tightly and yanking down hard.

“Ow! Fucking hell, girl!” he shouted.

“Sirius?”

“Yes, dammit!” he swore, slapping her hands away from his hair.

“Oh, thank god!” cried Hermione and latched onto him, kissing him with all the relief and happiness she felt.

“That’s more like it!”

He leaned into her again, pushing her back against the trunk, and this time Hermione did not care in the slightest. Quite the opposite, actually. Considering that she had worried for a week that he was angry at her and for the better part of five minutes that he would think she was cheating on him, she was elated to know beyond doubt that Sirius was quite happy to see her.

“You didn’t know it was me?” he asked in a ragged whisper.

“No.”

He was smirking; she could just tell. “Nice to know I’m not losing my touch.”

“Git,” she swatted at what she assumed to be his shoulder. “Why are you even here?’

“Aside from the obvious?” questioned Sirius with a deliberate twist of his hips against hers. “To keep you on your toes. You never know when a Death Eater might figure a way into the castle. I want to make sure you are fully prepared.”

“Really?” she replied. “Then perhaps I should be hexing you instead of kissing you.”

“Save that for next time,” he decided, stealing into her mouth again, preventing her inquiry about there being a ‘next time’.


	27. Holiday Calm

The month before Christmas holidays certainly kept the sixth years on their toes, Hermione more than any of them. In addition to her NEWT level classes and homework – with further assignments for extra credit – she had Prefect rounds and meetings in preparation for the train ride to London. That would have been easily managed were it not for Sirius.

Most every other husband who was not living in the castle was content with letters, Floo calls and weekly visits in the village. Sirius, however, was pained to be considered average. Once he had proven that he was capable of sneaking into the castle undetected, he did so at least twice a week. Hermione thought it was just to continue proving that he could, but he started ambushing her when she least expected it. Every time insisting that it was for her own good and that she needed to keep aware of the dangers they faced outside the castle.

She failed to see how being ravished in various and assorted cupboards, classrooms and corridors (and once in the Prefect washroom) helped her fight off Death Eaters, but the point seemed lost on Sirius.

Truthfully, she suspected he simply wanted to expedite the removal of all sensible, white, cotton underpants from her wardrobe so that she would have nothing left but the lacy knickers Ginny had given her. Were that the case, it was mission accomplished. As she packed her trunk, she was amazed that she had absolutely no underwear other than the seductive lace pair at the very back of the drawer and the simple cotton pair on her body.

“That man is such a git,” Hermione muttered as she closed the trunk and locked it.

“Didn’t Shakespeare have a line about a woman denying the truth too much?” questioned Ginny absently as she flipped through one of the books Hermione had not found the time to retransgifure back into its proper form.

“Shakespeare has a line about everything, that’s why he’s Shakespeare,” she retorted. “And you would be annoyed too if someone kept stealing all your pants.”

“He nicks your knickers?” the girl grinned. “So cute.”

“It is not cute!” Hermione frowned. “It is irritating and childish, and I wish he would stop it. I’m visiting my parents over the holiday and I will not spend Christmas without underwear in their house.”

Ginny snorted and dodged the pillow Hermione hurled at her.

“Get out if that’s all the help you’re going to be!” Hermione huffed and carried her trunk down to the common room where the whole of Gryffindor was packed up and waiting for Professor McGonagall to give them warnings about using magic outside of school and being careful of trouble and all those things she always warned them about so sternly. With final pre-emptive admonitions out of the way, Hermione pulled herself to her full height and started her Prefect duties.

“First years,” she called and assembled an orderly line of young Gryffindors. She led them through the castle and down to the village. Hagrid joined her at the gate and walked with her the whole way to Hogsmeade Station, talking about his plans to use Nifflers to aerate a new bed for vegetables as soon as the ground thawed. The conversation was so light and pleasant, she easily forgot that he was not there simply for friendship but as a deterrent to attacks. He stood with her while she saw the first years onto the waiting Hogwarts Express and waved at her from the platform until the train steamed off.

One train ride devoid of anything more serious than a badly executed Jelly-Legs Jinx later and Hermione was ushering the first years in groups of twos and threes through the barrier between Platform 9 ¾ and Muggle King’s Cross. Ron stood beside her, prodding the slower kids and Slytherins.

“Keep moving once you reach the other side,” she reminded them. “Others are waiting their turn behind you.”

Ron grumbled and pushed at the line to get it moving. “Hurry it up, you lot!”

It took forever, but finally all the first years were through. Ron ran through the barrier and started shoving the smaller kids through the bustling train depot toward the doors and their waiting parents. Meanwhile, Hermione took the time to ensure all the other students made it safely through. It was as much a feeling of duty as wanting a mass of students to disappear into on the other side. Even though his sneak attacks inevitably resulted in kisses and sex, Sirius had managed to drum into her the importance of remaining vigilant; she knew there were Death Eaters among the waiting parents, and she would not make herself more vulnerable by wandering around alone.

“Ready?” asked Harry. He had waited beside her and aided her in pushing the last of the stragglers through the barrier, more help than some of her fellow Prefects.

“Yes,” she said and took up the handle of her trunk.

“How many do you think will be there for us?” he grinned. “Sickle says it’s five.”

“But would Molly and Arthur count? They would have been here anyway,” she questioned lightly, enjoying this playful spin on their guards. It was much easier to tolerate the idea of needing protection when Harry was around. He had been under the watchful eye of the Order of the Phoenix longer than she had, and with him cracking jokes and making wagers, it lightened the weight she felt of having so many people around solely to watch them.

“Okay,” the boy said slowly, reconsidering his wager. “Three not counting them.”

She thought about it. “Two in the station, two guarding the entrance and two on brooms.”

His vibrant green eyes narrowed. “That’s awfully specific. You wouldn’t happen to have inside information, would you?”

“I’ve as much information as you and from the same source,” she sniffed and marched herself through the brick pillar. The noise was deafening on the other side; it was always a shock returning to the modern Muggle world of intercoms, mobile phones and stereos, but Christmas time made it worse, all the artificial lights blinding her and pre-recorded carols bombarding her from every angle.

Harry took the lead, elbowing his way through the crowd, his Quidditch training coming in quite handy.

“Harry, dear!” Molly shouted, her warm voice recognisable even over the call to load the train on Platform 5. “There you are! We were starting to worry. Sirius has been frantic.”

“I’m sure Remus and Tonks kept him calm,” Harry commented as he grinned at Hermione and crossed his fingers for luck.

“Remus tried his best,” Arthur nodded. “But he’s had a right time of it.”

“What about Tonks?”

“She’s keeping watch out front with George,” the man replied quietly.

Harry’s shoulders slumped as he followed the Weasleys through King’s Cross station. He had been wrong. All they needed was two guards in the sky and he would owe Hermione a Sickle.

“Just the two of them guarding the whole entrance?” Hermione inquired sweetly.

“They’ve got help from Fred, Moody and Kingsley,” Arthur said absently as he craned his neck to peer above the crowd to find Sirius. With a wide wave of his arm, he caught the man’s attention and turned his own back to Hermione. “What was I saying? Oh, they’re flying Disillusioned.”

“Damn,” she muttered with a half-hearted stamp of her foot. “I was so close.”

 “Come along, then,” Molly said, herding the four of them toward the exit.

It was slow going. They only managed three steps at a time before some mass of Muggles blocked their path. As they paused, stuck behind a large group of tourists, Hermione watched the crowd for signs of trouble and for Sirius. The less-than-merry crowd around them parted, making effortless passage for Sirius as he raced across the station to meet them. For all the impact his stature and presence had on the people around him, he offered them little attention. Watching his approach, Hermione wondered, and not for the first time, what it must be like to have that much sway over people with absolutely no effort at all.

“Where have you two been?” Sirius demanded in a voice so loud half the people in the station stopped to see what was happening. His words included Harry, but his eyes remained locked on hers. “You should have been off that train over an hour ago!”

Molly tried unsuccessfully to soothe him while Ron started complaining about ‘bloody first years’; Sirius apparently heard neither of them. He held her eye, waiting for an adequate excuse.

“I’m a Prefect,” Hermione replied. “I have duties to perform.”

“Bollocks!” he scoffed. “Moony never took that long getting off the train when he was Prefect.”

“Like you bothered paying attention,” his friend commented, shoving the man with a force that only a friend could have gotten away with. “I recall you being far too concerned with AJ’s br–“

“Yes! Thank you,” Sirius interrupted, his eyes darting back to Hermione. “That’s enough of your remembrances, Messer Lupin.”

Hermione was rather intrigued by their banter and by Sirius’s behaviour. If she had to go strictly by what she observed, she would have drawn the irrefutable conclusion that Sirius was afraid of what she thought. The last time his previous love affairs had come up, she had left him cold. Could he possibly think she would still react that way?

“Let’s get out of here.” He grabbed her hand and started pulling her toward the exit, his charisma making their escape easy.

Tonks, still brown and bland, met them out front. Without a word, she took Hermione’s trunk and disappeared into a nearby alley. A sharp ‘pop’ told them that she had Disapparated. George did the same for Harry’s trunk, though with considerably more joy and chatter.

“Am I not going in the car?” Harry asked, looking at the Ministry car waiting just down the street.

“Too far out of the way for them to drop you off,” Sirius commented matter-of-factly. “They’ve got a four-hour drive ahead of them. They don’t need it lengthened by even twenty minutes to get to my house.” His lips crept upward as realisation of his meaning hit Harry.

“I’m staying with you…?” he said, his hopefulness coloured by doubt.

“Of course,” he grinned and pulled Harry into a hug. He kept the boy close even as they walked the short distance to the Apparition spot around the corner of the building. “You joining us, Moony?”

“If there’s room enough, I might spend the night,” replied Remus, his smile genuine. He offered an arm to Hermione and brought them both safely to the doorstep of Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

“Welcome back!” James cried happily. “It’s been so boring without you!”

Lily smiled. “Wait until you see what we’ve done with the place! You won’t recognise it.”

“I’ve never seen Padfoot work so hard on anything,” James admitted. “It was a little scary, actually.”

“Oi!” Sirius complained. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t go talking about me behind my back.”

James just snorted in reply.

Sirius dropped his arm from about Harry’s shoulder and glared at the painting.

“I think getting settled might be a good plan,” Remus suggested helpfully. “They might be at it a while.”

“Do they not get along?” Hermione asked, worried her gift was not panning out quite as she had hoped. Remus had said that Sirius often talked to himself, carrying on a conversation with his lost friend; she had thought that having an animated portrait for him to talk to might be at least a bit healthier, but if they were arguing, then perhaps she ought to find an alternative gift.

“As well as they ever did,” Remus smiled. “They were like brothers, those two. James was the only one who could ever shrink Sirius’s head, and vice versa. That didn’t always lead to the friendliest of discussions.”

“Oh,” she said, glancing back and watching Sirius make an extremely rude hand gesture at the painting. “I guess that’s all right, then.”

She stopped abruptly as she came to her trunk. Tonks had deposited it at the foot of the stairs beside Harry’s. The boy grabbed his trunk and ran up the stairs, confident and content in the knowledge that he had a room all his own. Hermione was not so lucky. The last time she had been in this house, she had been in her own room, but where was she supposed to sleep now? Were it just the two of them, she would assume her trunk belonged in Sirius’s room. However, they were not alone. Harry was staying, too. What would he think of her sleeping in the same room with his Godfather?

Slowly climbing the stairs, she considered the two closed doors and the rooms that lay beyond.

It made little sense to sleep on her own. If Sirius’s behaviour at Hogwarts was any indication, he would simply sneak in during the night. Staying with Sirius was far more logical. Still, she could not shake the concern for how Harry would react.

“You think too much,” Sirius muttered with a chuckle.

“What? I was just—“

“Making a pros and cons list, probably,” he smirked. “It isn’t that complicated. You are my wife, you sleep with me.”

“But Harry’s here…” she whispered.

“He was in the castle, too,” he replied.

“That was completely different. He was several floors away in a different tower.”

Smirking, the man snatched the handle from her hand and took the trunk into his room. “I did not spend half the week making room in my closet for your clothes just for you to hide in another room.”

“I wouldn’t be hiding,” she began snippily, but paused, “Did you really make room for me?”

As a reply, he opened the closet door and gestured for her to enter.

She had seen it only once before, on that morning she helped him dress to meet her parents; the shelves and rods had been filled to capacity with more clothes than one person might ever need. Now there was a space the size of half her childhood bedroom empty and waiting for her to fill it. Looking at his clothes, she was happy to see all the trousers she had rejected that day were gone. She felt a tiny glow of acceptance that he valued her opinion enough to remove the items from his wardrobe.

The awe was evident in her hushed voice as she responded to his efforts, “You didn’t have to make that much room. I haven’t that much.”

He just smirked as if he would have something to say about that. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Sirius wait,” she said and dug into her trunk to find the item she had been meaning to give him. For all the time they spent together in the castle, she had never managed to present him with it, mainly due to Sirius insisting on surprisingly her when she was away from her dorm. The little box was easy to find in her organised trunk and she held it out for him.

“It isn’t Christmas yet,” he reminded her with a smile.

“This isn’t that sort of gift,” she replied. “This is more a belated wedding gift.”

The corner of his mouth turned up in amusement as he took the present; opening the box, his mouth curved even more. “That’s a blood diamond,” he observed. “Does that mean you care about me?”

“Shut up and put it on,” she ordered.

“But you do care.”

“I care if you’re attacked and die,” she agreed. “I don’t fancy having to explain to my parents why a grieving widow would choose to marry again thirty minutes after her first husband was buried.”

His smile fell and he pushed the ring onto his finger. “There you go. Now you’ll be able to plan for your second marriage without having to bother with making sure I’m dead.”

“Git.”

He turned without offering his customary comeback. She worried she might have offended him, but thought better of it. He was still being irritatingly honest with her, to the point of informing her when her breath smelled or a particular pair of shoes did nothing for her legs. If he was angry, he would have said, which meant that he was just giving her time to unpack. She was amazed that he was restraining himself; they were in his bedroom after all. Although, they would be spending every day and night together for the next two weeks, so it made sense that he would want to pace himself.

‘Or,’ she thought as she pulled her trunk into the closet and started organising her clothes on the hangers, ‘perhaps he actually wants to spend time with you fully dressed.’

“That would be a nice change,” she muttered with a smile.

Shelves filled and dresses hanging, she stepped from the room and ventured down the stairs, unsure what to expect. Harry, Sirius and Remus were talking with the Potters, who had come into the sitting-room and made themselves comfortable in the painting nearest the fire. Judging by Harry’s excited hand gestures and James’s pride-filled face, she gathered the boy was recounting one of his many Quidditch wins. Having attended the matches, she did not have much interest in the stories. Instead, she watched the men’s reaction to them. Sirius had missed most of Harry’s games and James all of them, so it was wonderful to see them so enthralled with his Quidditch-pitch heroics. As James began telling his own tales of the pitch, Hermione turned away.

She kicked off her shoes and settled down on the couch to read. Before she could reach for her book, Sirius walked over and lay back as if she were the world’s most comfortable pillow. She waited for him to comment or make some odd joke about it, but he took up her book and opened to the page she had marked, holding it on his chest so that they could both read it.

It was hardly a reading position she was accustomed to, but she was not uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, in fact; Sirius felt like a heavy, warm blanket.

“Turn the page,” she said.

“I’m not done yet,” he said absently and continued reading until he finished then turned the page.

Three times she reached the end of the second page and requested he turn it only to have to wait. He read far too slowly for her liking, but he was in control of the book. It took a great deal of effort to slow her pace to match his; the payoff came when she reached the end of the page just as he turned it. They read together for some time as Remus, Harry and James continued to talk.

During a lull in the conversation, Hermione was sure she felt eyes on her. She glanced up just as Harry dropped his gaze, a slight smile on his face.

“You know,” Lily whispered quietly from a nearby frame, “when James makes that particular smile it means he’s quite happy.”


	28. Holiday Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author forgets that she is supposed to be writing about Sirius Black and writes a love letter to Remus Lupin.

Shuffling half-blind through the house, Hermione managed to locate the kitchen. It was no mean feat given the early hour of the morning and her late night. Sirius celebrated their return from school in his usual fashion – staying up till all hours offering drinks to everyone and stumbling up to bed more than a little drunk but thoroughly happy. He had been so cheerful and intoxicated, he let the girl keep her last pair of sensible white knickers.

Remus was already awake, which was to say he was conscious and drinking coffee. He glanced up at her, his eyes barely more focused than hers, and nodded his greeting as he sipped at the cup in his hands. She vaguely recalled that he had been drawn into one last nightcap as she left the sitting-room at close to two o’clock in the morning. She could not imagine why he had gotten out of bed before noon.

“Morning,” Remus mumbled into his coffee cup.

“Hm,” replied the girl as she dropped onto a chair and fished around the table for a mug of her very own. “Coffee.”

“As my mistress wishes,” Kreacher said with a bow and placed a piping cup down before her.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” she muttered, sniffing the cup delicately. Sirius had likely given orders that she was not to be poisoned, but she was taking no chances. Kind she might be, but blindly trusting? Never.

“Dirty thing.”

As far as his insults went, that was fairly mild, so she took it as a sign of growing acceptance from the bigoted old house-elf and dove into her coffee with appreciation. “Fantastic coffee, Kreacher. Thank you.”

“Mistress,” the elf replied. If he had any additional commentary on her presence or cleanliness, he muttered it so quietly she couldn’t hear.

An hour and five more cups of coffee passed between the pair before either she or Remus could manage coherent conversation.

“How’s Sirius?”

“Clingy,” she sighed. “He likes to cuddle when he’s drunk.”

“I remember that,” laughed Remus. “He didn’t really care who it was, so long as he got to hug someone. It made sneaking back in from the village rather difficult some nights.”

She snorted into her mug, nearly inhaling the contents. Somehow she could not imagine Sirius of any age drunkenly hugging random people around the common room; it was too at odds with the regal air he carried around with him. “He hugged you?”

“Frequently,” the man smiled. “Said I was adorable.”

“Because you are,” Sirius said as he stumbled into the kitchen and fell into the chair beside him, latching onto his torso in what looked like a rather painful hug. “I love ya, Moony.”

“Still drunk, are we?” Remus laughed and patted his friend on the back. “It’ll pass.”

Her husband just kept clinging to him as if Remus might vanish from sight if he let go. Remus, apparently used to this, took up his cup and continued his morning as if there were not a six-foot appendage attached to his midsection. It made her rather curious as to how often Sirius got drunk while she was away at Hogwarts.

“Kreacher, is there any hangover cure left?” inquired Hermione.

“M’not hungover,” muttered Sirius.

“You’re near enough to it,” his friend replied.

“Master Black,” the elf deposited a brimming mug of liquid in front of Sirius, who stubbornly refused to look at it. Being intoxicated also made him about as reasonable as a five-year-old.

“It’s just coffee, you git,” Remus sighed and shoved the man off him.

Sirius pouted and downed the mug without even checking if what the werewolf said was true. It wasn’t. “Poisoned me!” he cursed and coughed and swore, but after a moment the master of the house was sitting upright in his chair looking suitably embarrassed.

“Are the others coming around today?” Remus asked, electing to pretend the events of the last five minutes never happened.

“For dinner, I think,” replied Sirius. “Tonks, too.”

The response was hardly what Hermione had expected. Remus tensed visibly, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the cup firmly in his hand. “I don’t think I can make it.”

“She’s my family, Moony,” the man said stiffly. “She’s going to be around.”

Silence followed as they ate the breakfast Kreacher laid out before them. Hermione felt like an intruder on the scene, watching Remus debate and argue with himself while Sirius’s haughty gaze spoke to some feeling of moral superiority in the whole affair; he knew where he stood and was simply waiting for his friend to stop being an idiot and admit he was in love.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Remus finally sighed.

Sirius grinned, confident that he would be there for dinner. “See you tonight.”

“Git.”

“Swot.”

“What?” Remus frowned.

He smirked over at Hermione. “Habit.”

oOo

Even without the threat of Walburga Black’s ear-splitting rants hanging over the entrance hall, guests still arrived as silently as possible. The Weasleys hurried in from the cold evening, Molly stepping in quickly and ushering her two children through to the house. Only when the door was shut firmly behind them, did anyone talk.

“Welcome!” James cried happily, a stark contrast to the madwoman they had grown accustomed to greeting them.

“Hello, dear,” Molly smiled and replied kindly, as if the portrait were just as deserving of coddling as anyone made of flesh and blood.

“Was the journey all right?” Hermione asked as she helped the woman from her coat.

“Of course, dear,” said Mrs Weasley. “But you can never be too careful.”

She nodded her understanding, though she thought it odd that Molly should take such a dark meaning to the innocent question. Things were tense around England since Voldemort’s return to life had been officially recognised. However, her question had nothing to do with that fact. She thought the woman’s response spoke to the fear in which they lived, but also to something else.

Ever since Sirius mentioned Remus and his ‘Order business’, Hermione had been convinced that there was something very big and very secret happening right under their noses. Everyone was carrying an edge around with them, especially Remus. He was light and pleasant enough when they were chatting away, but the moment silence fell and he was left to his own thoughts the tension returned to his brow and body. At first she suspected it was all to do with Tonks and his denial of his feelings toward her, but, seeing the strain in Molly and Arthur’s faces, she knew there was more to it.

Molly and Arthur were members of the original Order of the Phoenix, same as Remus. As such, they were privy to the most important secrets the Order had. If anyone knew what was really going on, it was them. The couple had clearly not been inclined to share their secrets with their two under-aged children, however; both Ron and Ginny, seemingly oblivious to the strain on their parents’ faces, grinned happily as they deposited their coats on the hook near the door. Ginny stopped to hug Hermione and greet the portraits while her brother moved past them and into the house.

“Is dinner ready? I’m starving,” Ron said as he walked.

“I don’t like that one,” James commented.

“Shush, you,” she chided quietly. “I used to like him.”

“Good thing Sirius came along, then,” he replied with a wink, making Ginny giggle and Hermione frown.

She turned away, following the relatively small group of Weasleys through to the kitchen. Sitting down at the table, she looked across at Ron. He was tall and not unattractive; she had spent a good deal of her personal time thinking about him not too long ago, yet the crush she had felt toward him for years was gone now.

The odd thing was that she could not remember when that infatuation ended.

Back in summer, she had been disappointed that he was too young to propose, but since then she had stopped thinking of him in any romantic way. If what poets, playwrights and songwriters said was true, then the inability to be with him should have made her attachment _stronger_. Once she was married, she could never be divorced and the magic would prevent her taking a lover, so Ron was lost to her. That should have made her pine for him, shouldn’t it?

Looking at her situation again with the critical eye of a realist and not a romantic, she saw the truth of the matter. She had a grown man bend himself down on one knee to propose, give her lessons in NEWT-level magic, and taking her to never-truly-believed-in realms of ecstasy with seemingly little effort. After that, Ron was simply inadequate.

‘Nice way to think about your friend,’ she admonished herself before realising her choice of words said it all. He was a friend; momentary crush notwithstanding, that was all he ever was. Hermione was, as James said, very lucky that something came along to show her that truth before she lost herself to Ron or someone equally as incompatible with her desires and goals.

Looking up from her introspection, she saw the assembled party of friends sitting awkwardly at the table. Sirius had forced Remus to sit beside Tonks as if a single dinner was all that it would take for the man to get over his scruples. Instead, the werewolf had moved his chair as far from the woman as was socially acceptable and was forcing conversation on Arthur. Tonks, meanwhile, had engaged Ginny in discussion but kept looking back at Remus. It was painful to watch.

She wanted to do something, to say something that everyone might enjoy talking about, but her mind went blank. She searched for a topic, any topic, and finally blurted out a question to no one in particular.  “Are you spending the night?”

“I am!” Ginny declared.

“Oh, I think we might all enjoy that,” agreed Molly. “I know Arthur’s been so excited to see the renovations.”

“How could I not be when there are plugs involved?” the man defended himself. Turning to Sirius, he asked, “Have you got wires in the walls, too?”

“Some of them,” Sirius admitted and grinned as Mr Weasley practically bounced in his seat.

Amazingly, the tension eased. Arthur’s childlike enthusiasm was contagious and he soon had them laughing at his latest attempt to magic a Muggle gadget – a blender. Just as he was reaching the climax of his story, describing his feat of daring battling the bespelled device with its whirling blades of destruction, the room exploded with light and a heart-wrenchingly beautiful song.

An impossibly large songbird flashed across the kitchen, a blur of fiery red and gold feathers. It flew over their heads, its wings barely bushing the top of Arthur’s bald head on the down beat as it made for Remus. The bird sang out once more as it deposited a scroll onto the man’s lap then bursting into flames, filling the room with light and music once more.

When the music stopped, the room fell deathly silent for several long heartbeats until Harry spoke.

“Fawkes?” he said, dazed and awed.

The spell of the bird lifted and all eyes turned to Remus, who sat stiffly in his chair, his steady hands opening the scroll. His jaw clenched and, even as they watched, his eyes grew hard with determination.

It was the Order business that Sirius had talked about, that had taken the werewolf down Knockturn Alley and had him keeping secrets from his oldest friend. It was the Order business that set his face with such fierce purpose that Hermione thought the full moon might be rising outside at that precise moment. It was the Order business that had him stand, turn to Tonks and take her mouth for a lingering and heart-breaking kiss.

She knew she ought to look away, that the kiss Remus and Tonks were sharing was more intimate than any she had ever experienced in her life, but she kept her eyes on them. Seconds, perhaps even minutes, ticked past as Remus cupped Tonks’s face in gentle contrast to the bruising pressure of his lips.

As he broke away, he whispered in her ear.

“I love you, too,” the woman replied, though he was already gone.

A painful and uncertain hush followed the man’s sudden disappearance. Hermione knew what sort of kiss that had been, though she had never experienced one herself. That had been a final kiss. Wherever he had gone, whatever his mission was, Remus did not expect to return from it. Good man that he was, he could not die without letting Tonks know the truth.

More than ever, Hermione wanted to know all there was to know about this ‘Order business’. What was so damned important that Dumbledore would risk the life of a man like Remus Lupin? 


	29. The Hardest Part

No one in the house could sit still. They paced the floor until it shined from the passage of their feet; sat only to stand immediately, ashamed that they would dare try to rest or relax while Remus was somewhere in the world facing death. Sirius drank half a bottle of brandy before he couldn’t stand the waiting anymore and disappeared through the fireplace to Dumbledore’s office, determined to find some answers. Hermione had watched him leave, assuming that as soon as he arrived in the Headmaster’s Office, he would stumble into a chair and fall asleep, despite his anger and agitation.

She was tired, too, but the idea of sleep held no appeal.

Remus was too important to them – a mentor to Harry, love to Tonks, friend to Sirius. That he would be alone in this was too painful to think about. He had been forced into isolation by his condition; Dumbledore should have known better than to make him alone in this, too. There were more than enough people fighting the good fight to give him a partner, an ally, _something_. Making him work alone just seemed cruel.

“What time is it?” Harry asked.

“Two minutes since you last asked,” replied Ron.

“Half nine,” Ginny said and smacked her brother. “He’s been gone over twelve hours. What the hell is he doing?”

It was a sure sign of their distress that Molly did not say one word to her daughter about her language.

“Maybe we should have gone with Sirius,” Harry said, raking a hand through his hair until it stood on end.

Tonks shook her head. “No one would be here if he comes back. What if he’s hurt?”

Considering his monthly traumas before the invention of the Wolfsbane potion, Hermione thought him more than capable of dealing with even the most severe physical or psychological damage. Saying as much, however, was unlikely to inspire any level of confidence in the worried assembly, so she said nothing.

It took hours, but exhaustion finally claimed them one by one.  

Time ran in odd fits and spasms after that. Hermione jerked awake at every strange noise thinking it Remus or Sirius returning; more often than not it was only Kreacher shuffling past or James cursing and kicking a piece of furniture in a nearby painting. Every time she woke the time had moved on – 9:02, 10:46, 12:25, 2:59. Occasionally someone else would be awake, watching the clock or door, face ashen and expression mournful. As the twenty-four-hour mark drew ever nearer, the sitting-room felt more like a wake, as if Remus had already died and they were merely awaiting final confirmation.

“He isn’t coming back, is he?” Ginny whispered as the clocked ticked past the exact time Remus had left them without so much as a pause to spare their feelings. Twenty-four hours he had been alone. Twenty-four hours he had been gone without sending word.

Tonks cried, not for the first time, and Hermione could only imagine her pain. The woman loved Remus, no one knew for how long. While Hermione admitted that she had grown fond of Sirius, she didn’t love him, not like Tonks loved Remus. As time continued ticking on, she tried to put herself in Tonks’s place. What would she do if it was Sirius who had gone off on Order business?

Follow him. Stop him. Help him. Kill him. Something. Anything other than wait around in a dark room, crying and worrying.

“I can’t stand this anymore!” Tonks cried, shattering the respectful silence and running for the door.

Knowing they should stop her but unable to think how, they watched her go. The front door slammed shut and they heard her scream.

“Tonks!” Harry shouted and sprinted after her.

It was Death Eaters. It had to be. They had killed Remus and now they were coming for the rest of the Order.

Drawing her wand, Hermione hurried to follow Harry.

As the door flew open, she sent a silent stunner at the figure in the doorway. Her aim was off by barely an inch and the pair on the doorstep entered.

“Help me!” cried Tonks. “He’s heavier than he looks!” She staggered in, her natural lack of grace in no way aiding her entry into the cluttered hallway. The man leaning against her groaned his protest, either to being called fat or to being used as a cushion when she tripped and fell into the wall.

“Remus!” Harry shouted, racing the few feet to the man’s side and taking some of his weight. “Where were you? Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

“Just tired,” he replied, his voice as rough as it was immediately following his monthly transformations, when the screams ripped from his throat. She hated to imagine what had happened to him over the past thirty-six hours to have him sounding like that.

“Ron,” Mrs Weasley commanded, “take Nymphadora’s place. Upstairs with you. We’ll let him rest and send word to Dumbledore and Sirius that he’s come back safe.”

“Already know,” Remus grated out as Ron and Harry set him down on his bed. “Sent a Patronus.”

“And neither one bothered to tell us?” replied Hermione indignantly. “Sirius knows how worried we’ve been, the git!”

A dark laugh escaped him as he fell back onto the pillow. “Has worries enough of his own right now.”

Hermione did not like the sound of that, and, despite her stress-induced exhaustion, she wanted to stay and demand answers. Remus, however, was already asleep. In the warm light of the sunrise, it was clear the man was beyond bone-weary. Whatever his assignment, it had been one that required every last ounce of his strength.

“Let’s leave him to rest,” Molly smiled. “I’ll make us all something to eat.”

“You go,” Tonks said. “I want to stay with him.”

Glancing back, Hermione saw the woman lay down and wrap her arms around the sleeping werewolf, the picture of pure contentment, and wondered if she would ever know that feeling.

oOo

Sirius ran from the fireplace just as they were sitting down to breakfast, his eyes practically as wild as his tangled hair. He looked nearly identical to the man who had cornered them in the Shrieking Shack, only dressed slightly better. He didn’t spare them any pleasantries or offer any apologies for his long absence.

“Moony?” he asked.

“Asleep upstairs,” Arthur assured him. “Sit down and rest. It’s been hard on everyone, this waiting business.”

Sirius nodded his understanding but instead of moving to sit, he pushed past the kindly Weasley patriarch and ran up the stairs to ensure his friend was still alive. Expecting him to return after checking on Remus, they all sat and began to eat, making up for over a day spent without appetite. Fruit, eggs, sausage, bacon, toast, mushrooms all vanished from their plates while Sirius was upstairs.

Hermione was just starting to wonder if he, too, had fallen asleep, when the kitchen door swung wide and Sirius entered. It was instantly clear what had taken so long; his hair was clean and free of tangles, face shaved smooth and, in place of his wrinkled and slept-in robes, waistcoat and trousers, he wore a suit of fine, expensive wool with matching robes and polished shoes. They were clothes she had not seen before, more traditional than Sirius would have worn except for the most formal of occasions.

He was dressed not to impress but to intimidate.

“Breakfast, dear?” Molly asked, a waiver of uncertainty in her voice. Looking as he did, with those clothes and that deep frown, Sirius was every bit the regal heir of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, and it was enough to put a bit of fear into even his closest friends.

“None for me, thanks,” replied Sirius with a dark smile. “I have Order business.”

Hermione’s blood froze in her veins. Order business? She glanced sharply and meaningfully at Harry, knowing he was the only one who had any concept of how much the phrase consumed her.

“I’ll be back for lunch,” Sirius promised.

“You’d better be,” Molly warned.

With something that would pass for an amused laugh to those who did not know him, Sirius threw a fistful of Floo Powder into the kitchen fireplace. “Diagon Alley.”

Without a word to his wife, he was gone.

Moving in unison, Hermione and Harry both flew across the room to the fireplace, threw in their own hasty handfuls of powder and vanished before anyone might utter so much as a word of protest. Glimpses of the strange and foreign rooms flashed before her eyes in the grates she travelled past, but the world finally stilled and she stumbled from the fireplace of the dimly lit pub she knew well enough. The Leaky Cauldron. There were only a few customers at the bar and sitting around tables, none of whom bothered looking her way.

As she scoured the pub, Harry rushed from the grate and nearly knocked her to the floor. “Where is he?”

Hurrying toward the backdoor, Hermione peered around the corner just in time to catch sight of Sirius walking purposefully through the brick archway into Diagon Alley.

“I don’t like this,” she whispered. “We’ll be too exposed.”

“We’ve no choice, Hermione,” Harry hissed and moved past her.

“Wait!” She gripped his arm and pulled him back. Reaching into her sleeve, she retrieved her wand and tapped Harry on the head. The Disillusionment charm dripped down his body like a smashed egg and he vanished from sight. She performed the spell on herself. As the spell fell down around her, she felt Harry’s invisible hand grip hers just before it disappeared.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

There was not time enough to observe the oddity of being nearly invisible or to note the strange disconnect she felt as the unseen boy yanked on her hand. Sirius had already moved ahead of them, and they had no idea where he was. They needed to keep visual contact with him or their presence in Diagon Alley was pointless.

“Maybe we ought to split up,” muttered Harry as they met the small swirl of shoppers running nervously from store to store. It was far from the crush that usually filled the winding cobbled lane of the Wizarding marketplace, fear of Voldemort and Death Eaters had considerably thinned the crowd, but it was still enough that they had lost sight of Sirius.

“No!” she snapped, startling a witch nearby. “We stick together. You saw the state Remus was in when he came back. Sirius will need all the help he can get.” The anxiety that Sirius might return in a similar state to Remus, or not at all, was making her heart pound a frantic rhythm in her chest.

“I don’t know… He doesn’t look like he was dressed for a fight,” the boy reasoned. “I mean, _look at him_.”

“You see him?”

“Heading toward Gringotts.”

She looked to the towering marble structure and felt her heart slow as she saw Sirius striding up the stairs, not giving the guards or passers-by a second glance. Her relief was replaced by annoyance. How was banking Order business?

“Hurry!” Harry said and pulled hard on her arm to get her moving. She understood his agitation. If Sirius disappeared into the labyrinthine underground vaults of Gringotts, they would never know his mission and would have no clues to guide them toward figuring out what the Order was up to.

Racing up the stairs and past the frowning goblin guards, Harry and Hermione stood panting in the lobby as Sirius stood irritably a few yards ahead of them. As her breath found its way back into her lungs, she studied the man in front of them. His impatience was not the sort of a man made nervous or anxious by his task or surroundings, but that of someone with far better things to do with his time than wait to be served. She had seen that sort of behaviour before in another man of age and wealth and style – Lucius Malfoy.

A gentle pull of her hand indicated that Harry wanted to get closer. She inched forward slowly, holding her breath and praying her shoes would not squeak on the polished floor.

“Mr Black,” a goblin said and gestured him closer to the counter. “How may I assist you today?”

Hermione strained her ears to listen to his reply.

“I am taking over my family vaults,” Sirius declared. His voice was the same, but there was something more to it. His tone was different, imperious and commanding. It was a tone she had never heard him use before, one more likely to come from his brother. Sirius was warm and amused and ever-so-slightly condescending in a charming way. This man with his frown and half-lidded eyes and expensive suit and demanding voice was a stranger to her.

This, she knew without being introduced, was Orion Black.

This was a man no one could refuse.

“You have the keys to these vaults, I presume?” the goblin hedged, the tone and appearance of the man before him clearly having some effect.

“No. Nor do I need them.”

“Sir—“

“I am rightful heir and will not be denied,” Sirius informed the man, his arrogance a slap to the goblin’s face. “My brother is dead. My cousins are known supports of Voldemort and are either in- or recently escaped from Azkaban. By Ministry law, they have forfeited their right to their inheritance the moment they committed a crime.”

The goblin, an old and wise creature, considered the man before him and nodded slowly. “You are, of course, correct, sir. I will have someone assist you to the vaults right away.”

“I need visit only one today,” Sirius replied magnanimously.

It took barely two minutes for the diminutive assistant to scurry around the counter and guide Sirius (with Harry and Hermione in tow) to the cart, but it was enough time for a knot of anxiety to form in her chest. What was he after?

Getting into the cart silently took all the skills Hermione had learned after five years of sneaking around Hogwarts with Harry and Ron. She fell back with a muffled ‘thud’ and sighed her relief as quietly as she dared. The odd, unseen lump bumping her shoulder told her that Harry, too, had made it safely into the cart.

“The Lestrange Family Vault,” commanded Sirius.

Lestrange? What could he possibly need in the Lestrange vault?

“Yes, Sir,” the goblin responded and gripped the lever, pulling it with all his might to disengage the brake. Hermione was thrown back and only just managed to withhold a scream as the cart accelerated unexpectedly on the rails, dashing and swerving dangerously through the narrow passage, descending ever further into the darkness. It was the worst roller coaster ride she had ever been on and it only ever went down.

“What is that ahead?” Sirius demanded, even nervous he sounded more authoritative than Hermione imagined he could.

“The Thief’s Downfall,” the goblin replied with something of a nasty grin to his voice, as if he expected to be the one to discover the man was really a fake.

“I thought it was a story told to scare off robbers.”

The goblin only smirked.

Hermione gripped Harry’s hand, too frightened to care that she might be hurting him. She had never heard of the Thief’s Downfall, but she could not imagine it would bode well for either of them. The cart rattled toward the waterfall far more quickly than she would have liked, giving her little time to formulate a plan. She had only enough time to consider if casting a spell to freeze the water or a levitation charm to float herself and Harry around the deluge were realistic options.

There wasn’t time enough. The cart hurtled closer and closer, building up speed as it approached the enchanted waters, cutting her reaction time to one minute, half a minute, fifteen seconds, five.

Praying the punishment would be mild, she clenched her eyes and held her breath as the freezing water rained down on them.

“Bloody hell,” Sirius spat, his dignity only slightly diminished.

“Thieves!” the goblin wailed and pointed a crooked finger at the stowaways.


	30. Order Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a cup is found.

“THIEVES!”

The goblin’s gnarled, arthritic finger shot out and pointed at them as his other hand reached behind and grabbed hold of a smaller lever. Sirius spun in his seat, wand drawn and face fierce. Seeing who it was, he only grew angrier.

“No, just my wife and idiot Godson, who both ought to know better,” he growled.

“Your—“

Gaping, Hermione barrelled over the goblin’s words. “ _I’m_  the one who ought to know better? You know full well how worried we were when Remus was gone for a day and a half! After you went on about his…  _business_ , you think I’m not going to follow you when you give me the same vague excuse?”

“My wife always thinks I’m stepping out on her, too,” the little goblin patted Sirius on the back and turned back to the lever.

“I am trying to keep you safe, you bloody swot,” Sirius hissed and threw a spell at her. She flinched, expecting a hex, a light stinging hex at least, a fully-body bind at worst, but she felt warm and dry. He flicked his wand at Harry and at himself, then turned his dry, though frigid, shoulder on them.

She knew that she had not acted as wisely as she could have, but there were things she needed to know and if sneaking around was the only way to get that information then that was what she would do. If it was Order business then it affected Harry; if it affected Harry, then it affected her. She was fully justified in her actions, however foolish they might appear. What right did he have to yell at her for doing no worse than he had done at seventeen?

Feeling resentment at her treatment and validation of her methods, she opened her mouth to assault him with a second barrage.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“How could you possibly know what I’m going to say?”

“I know you.”

She crossed her arms and huffed angrily.

“I thought you were lying about her being your wife,” the goblin laughed, “but that’s just what mine does when she’s angry with me. Poor sod.” He took his hand from the small lever, assured in the integrity of his passengers.

“Don’t you start, too!” Hermione snapped.

“Yes, Mrs Black,” replied the goblin quickly.

She fumed for the last vomit-inducing stretch of the ride, too furious to notice how sickening the sharp twists and sudden descents were. The cart came to a quick stop. The goblin, whose name Hermione still didn’t know, climbed out easily and led them down a short path carved into the bedrock. She expected to see vault doors, but there were none. Instead there was an archway leading to a high-ceilinged rotunda that smelled overpoweringly of unwashed wild beasts.

“Stay close to the wall and do not stray behind,” the goblin advised as he lifted a metal device and began rattling it to make a loud and annoying noise. “It’s a Clanker. The dragon has been trained to fear it and will not come near.”

“Dragon?” Hermione repeated and gripped the nearest arm, not caring that it was Sirius’s and that they were angry with one another.

Rushing through the entrance at the pace set by the little goblin and his Clanker, they pressed themselves against the wall beside the vault door in relief. It was terrifying seeing a dragon so close, but more than anything Hermione was horrified at the condition of it. She had seen dragons in their natural state, strong and beautiful and free save their temporary use as obstacles to the Triwizard champions. This dragon was nothing like those. It was thin in the chest from being unable to exercise its flight muscles. The leathery skin of its wings was filthy and torn from living in its own muck and from the abuse used to ‘train’ it.

No magical being deserved such treatment.

“Leave it,” Sirius whispered, running a hand down her back to soothe her growing outrage. “Timing is important to the battles we choose. Crusade for dragon rights once we’re safely above ground.”

She huffed, though it sounded more like a breath of laughter. He really did know her.

“Only a relative of the family may touch the contents,” the goblin warned. “I advise your wife and Godson to remain outside the vault.” He placed his palm to the filthy metal, and the door opened.

“Stay,” Sirius ordered sternly.

“Don’t you talk to me like I’m some moronic dog,” Hermione fumed and stomped after him. Her ire vanished as she came to an abrupt stop, staring in open-mouthed wonder not at her husband’s horrified face but at the glittering contents of the Lestrange vault. It was like the coffers they always showed in movies when some treasure hunter stumbled into the long-lost kingdoms forgotten by time and buried by sand or jungle growth. It was shining and beautiful.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sirius growled.

Hermione stared at the toppled piles of Galleons near her feet. “Sirius, if the Black Family Vault is even half as grand as this,” she said in a hushed voice. “I have absolutely no qualms about letting you lavish me in books.”

A quiet chuckle escaped him, though he silenced it quickly. “We have to get out of here alive first.”

“What?”

“You didn’t have the joy of meeting Bellatrix back in June,” he replied darkly. “Trust me, Hermione, there is probably nothing in here that isn’t cursed against someone like you.”

She looked from his face to deceptively beautiful contents of the vault, finally realising the sort of people who had stored these items away; the fanatical purebloods would doubtless have placed curses on even the smallest or most innocuous of their possessions on the off chance that it might one day fall into the hand of a Muggle-born. Edging away from the spilled coins back toward the door, her heart started to beat wildly in panic. The space was too narrow, she felt caged. Even with her arms wrapped tightly against her body, her elbow hit against a towering bronze statue. She drew her wand in anticipation of the lethal reaction. Nothing came.

“Final proof that she’s really your wife, then,” the goblin said sounding rather disappointed that the contents of the vault had not reared up and attacked her.

“I think I’ll stay over here,” Hermione said. “Just to be on the safe side.”

“Good plan,” her husband called, his voice heavy with sarcasm that she did not appreciate.

Her accidental touching of the statue had apparently given Sirius more confidence in his right to claim the vault. Where a moment before he was edging around objects with careful consideration to the placement of his feet and hands and elbows, he now moved purposefully through the thin space not bothering to pause or flinch if his robes brushed against a vase or statue. He was searching for something, that much she could tell, though she had no idea what. There were so many shining treasures locked in the vault it was difficult to say what would be of value to the Order or to Sirius. 

As she watched, breath held tightly in her lungs, Sirius stopped and directed his attention to a golden cup resting on a high shelf. It was small and looked as if it could barely hold enough water to satisfy the least thirsty of men. In a vault filled with such finely-crafted objects, the tiny cup was hardly worth looking at, even in Hermione’s opinion, yet Sirius did look. He stared up at it. She wanted to see his face, to know the expression he wore when looking at it, and found herself moving again into the vault without any conscious direction from her brain.

“Hermione,” Harry hissed but made no move to come after her.

The girl was clear across the vault by the time Sirius did anything more than stare at the cup. She saw the want in his eyes, the naked hunger she had never seen before, though she could not understand why he would be showing it. Sirius lifted his wand, waving it in the familiar motion to summon an object. The cup refused to even wiggle weakly, sitting on the shelf as if Sirius had not just sent a charm at it.

“Hermione,” he said and pointed to the cup. “I’m going to levitate you up to reach that cup.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very good idea,” she replied nervously. “Couldn’t I levitate you up to it instead?”

He considered her a moment before nodding. “Smart girl. It might be rigged against Muggle-borns.”

She glanced back at the cup and wondered why he would think it booby-trapped when the statue had proven safe. Her hand had brushed against an enamel vase, her feet had stepped on at least five hundred Galleons as she followed him, yet it was the tiny cup that was dangerous? It seemed ludicrous, but his face was drawn. He was serious. “Are you ready?”

He nodded.

She waved her wand, swishing and flicking and sending Sirius up into the air. He hovered parallel to the shelf, reached out and grabbed hold of the cup. As he ripped it from its home, Hermione struggled to keep him aloft. Holding Sirius up had been difficult enough, but it felt as if she were now levitating two men instead of just the one. The resistance she felt against the spell was almost too much for her to withstand, and she hurried to bring Sirius back to the floor before she lost control and sent him crashing to it.

“Well done,” he said, dropping the cup into an inner pocket of his robes. Oddly, he looked more grim. His task was complete; the cup had been retrieved, so she failed to see why he looked as if the hardest part still lay ahead.

“Ladies first,” he said with a bow. His attempt at lightness failed to distract her; she could still see the tightness around his eyes and mouth and hear the strain in his voice. Whatever the cup was, whatever his next task, it scared him.

“Sirius—“

“Not here,” he cut her off. “I don’t trust this place.”

An argument was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. The vault or its contents made him more nervous than she had ever seen him. It was nearly enough to make her laugh; she had wanted to find the one thing Sirius was not good at, and she had found it. It was not the sort of thing she could use against him, though. She would never dare take advantage of so understandable a fear, not even to knock him down a peg or two.

“What’s so special about that cup?” Harry asked eagerly.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Sirius said with absolute finality.

The boy scowled. “So what happens now? Since we’re not allowed to be helpful.”

“Now, I take you both home, where you should have been since breakfast, and lock you in your rooms until I finish my work.”

In the cart once again, Hermione and Harry sat in the back, silent and cross, glaring daggers at the back of Sirius’s head. The wild ride through the underground vault system did nothing to distract either of them, and, as soon as the cart stopped, Harry launched his protest.

“Why are you keeping secrets from us?” the boy demanded. “You of all people should know how dangerous that can be! My parents died because of secrets, Sirius.  _You_  nearly died because of them!”

The man sighed, grabbed them each by the arm and pulled them through the bank. “When it’s all over, I will tell you everything,” he promised. “Until then, the less you know, the safer you’ll be.”

“Sit at home, quiet and confined?” Hermione sneered. “What year were you born – 1959 or 1759?”

Sirius offered no reply and his face was carefully blank, but the volume of his Disapparition spoke to how angry he was. “Get in the house,” he ordered quietly.

Harry stomped up the steps, either unaware of his Godfather’s real mood or too angry to care. He stormed up the steps to his bedroom and slammed the door shut. Hermione was not so willing to hide in her room, and waited for Sirius to offer some kind of explanation. She stood in the entrance hall as he added wards to the door, something he rarely bothered doing since the house was Unmappable.

“Go upstairs,” he told her. “I’ll explain later.”

“You’ll explain now.”

“Hermione,” he sighed, sounding as if her demand was causing him physical pain.

“Who was the one who insisted on absolute honesty?” she reminded him.

“For you to tell me the truth about how you feel,” he spat, “not in every-goddamn-thing we do. Do you really think I care how many hours you spent at the fucking library?” The fire was growing in his eyes, a dark anger verging on resentment. She had not even seen such rage when she faced him on their wedding day, fuming and shouting, surrounded by the shattered contents of his kitchen cupboards. Right now, Sirius  _hated_  her.

Dressed in his fine clothes, eyes burning into her, voice not his own, he was frightening. Strangely, that made her angry. What right did he have to intimidate her? She was his wife. She was a garment to compliment and complete and comfort him,not a carpet for him to trample all over.

“No, you probably don’t care, but I would tell you if Dumbledore ordered me to run all alone into the village on some stupid mission,” she countered. “Something like this matters. Absolute truthfulness, you said.”

“It wasn’t my truth to tell, you stupid girl,” he shouted, and took a staggering step back, shocked by his own volume. When he spoke again, he was quieter, though not by much, “It wasn’t my place to say.”

“Not your place?” she repeated, hardly believing her ears. “You’re  _Sirius Black_. Since when do you have a ‘place’?” She could tell that he had taken her words as a compliment and continued quietly, “You could have given me some hint instead of leaving me to worry. Just give me something I can research. I’m going insane being locked away and kept in the dark. Tell me what that thing is.”

Too quickly for him to knock her hands away, she tore into his robes, digging into the inner pocket and pulling the stolen cup free.

As she stepped back, cup in hand, the resentment melted from him. She could see the relief in his posture and face, as if the cup had been a terrible weight on his body and conscience. Seeing him relax had the opposite effect on her; seeing his diminished anger made hers grow, though if forced to put her reasons into words she would not have been able to.

“What is this?” she demanded, turning her hard glare from him to the cup.

It was beautiful, the gold shining as if it had just been polished, the patterns on the handles so delicate. She wanted to hold it in her hands forever, to keep it safe and unharmed and close. Her stiff spine and squared shoulders softened as she stared. Sirius must have seen the change in her. How could he not when he knew her so well?  He wrapped his arms around her, as if hugging her from behind, though his fingers slid lightly down her arms and grasped her hands. He made no move to steal the cup away, so she ignored him; he was a buzzing fly trying to distract her from protecting the magnificent cup,  _her_  magnificent cup.

“Pet,” Sirius whispered into her ear in the way that always made her shiver; now it just annoyed her, “I think you should put that back.”

“You just want to take it for yourself,” she said, eyes locked on the cup and tongue licking hungrily at her lips.

“Not for myself. For Dumbledore.”

“What could he want with something so precious?”

He paused a brief moment, but continued, “To keep it safe. Powerful man, Dumbledore. The only man Voldemort ever feared.”

That was true. Voldemort never dared attack the school during the first wizarding war. Dumbledore was too strong, too clever, too tricky. If anyone could protect the cup, it was such a man.

“Let’s take it to him,” Sirius whispered, low, seductive, pulling her slowly back toward the door.

“Yes.”

He guided her through the door and out to the street, though he could have been guiding her anywhere for all the good her eyes were doing her; they were too busy caressing the cup’s every detail as she held it gently in her hands. Even through Disapparition and the walk from the gates of Hogwarts to the Headmaster’s Office, she knew only the beautiful little chalice. Dumbledore was there, talking, but she could not look away. Why would she want to? The cup was what she had been seeking her whole life without ever knowing it.

“Hermione, the cup,” Sirius prompted.

The force of will required to rip her eyes from her cup was more than she had ever imagined, but she did look away to the smiling face of Albus Dumbledore.

“Come, Mrs Black, I cannot do my part if the cup remains in your hands.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Keep it safe, please, Professor.”

She set it down on the desk before him and watched as he lifted his wand.

“You chose correctly, Sirius,” the old wizard confirmed. “This is most certainly the cup of Helga Hufflepuff. Let us finish this.”

“Finish?” Hermione repeated dully, unable to think clearly even with the small distance she had put between the cup and her skin.

“Stand back, my dear,” the Headmaster advised gently. “Sirius.”

Sirius stepped into her field of vision, shoulders squared and jaw set, looking every inch the dashing knight excepting his lack of armour. He did, however, have a sword. Shining brightly, the silver sword looked lethally sharp; no mere decoration to be hung on the wall and admired, it had been made for real use, and use it Sirius would. He set his sights on the cup, adjusting his grip on the ruby-encrusted hilt.

As he raised the sword high, a sharp cry pierced the air. Hermione gripped her head as if it might shatter from the noise. Eyes watering from the pain, she looked to Sirius. The man was frozen in place, pale and pained, startled at first by the ear-splitting noise, then by the sight emerging from the cup.


	31. Tempest in a Teacup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which violence is the answer.

A localised storm was brewing. One so isolated it did not reach past the room in which the cup of Helga Hufflepuff sat. A swirl of gale-force winds and steely clouds blew up from the vessel of the cup as if it contained the entire atmosphere of the earth inside and was expelling it all at once. From the maelstrom, a shape formed, slowly at first but growing steadily more substantial. Soon, the swirling mass of clouds was an arm, a torso, a head.

It was a woman.

It was Hermione.

Looking at the vision, Hermione could not believe that the woman was meant to be her. She was far prettier, verging on beautiful, than Hermione ever thought she could look, but, unbelievably, it was her.

“Disgusting waste of space,” the woman said, her voice distant but still piercing through the thundering winds. “You’re nothing but an animal.”

Hermione frowned, certain that she was hearing things wrong; the woman in the storm was beautiful, surely her words should be as well. The voice was hers, but the words sounded as if they ought to have come from the portrait of Walburga Black. The girl looked to Dumbledore, but he was fighting fruitlessly against the winds, looking like a mime walking in place. She and Sirius were nearer the cup, the eye of this small, strange squall, and were unaffected by the strongest of the weather.

“Sirius, what…?” she began, but had to stop as the woman spoke again. Her voice was growing louder as if the distance between them was diminishing, though neither she nor they had moved.

“Look at you, Sirius,” she smiled down at him. Her tone and smile were sweet as if she were speaking endearments, but her eyes were hard and as she continued it was clear she had no love for Sirius, “How could I ever find my peace in you?”

Hermione could not understand where this woman had come from with her unrealistic beauty and wildly inaccurate opinions.

The woman’s animosity was focused solely on Sirius despite Dumbledore being barely two yards away; the old wizard was by far the more powerful opponent. Whenever he gained enough ground, his magic would have her back in the cup in seconds. If anyone deserved the attention it was him, not Sirius. Hermione searched for another reason for the woman to attack the one man instead of the other. It was not proximity, because she was just as close to the cup as he was, and the woman was paying her no mind at all. She was not worth bothering with because she was no threat to the woman, nor was Dumbledore. Only Sirius was trying to harm the cup from which she had sprung.

The storm, the woman, the words, it was all the cup protecting itself. It was trying to scare him, hurt him.

It appeared to be working.

The sword dropped from Sirius’s hands, clattering against the stone floor. He did not move to retrieve it. He was incapable, shaking even as sweat trailed down his face. He stared, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed at the woman in the tempest, entranced. There was no spell holding him in thrall; just as she recognised the woman as herself, she recognised fear in her husband. Sirius was absolutely terrified of the woman and every word that left her full lips.

“No…” he said, barely a whisper.

“Yes,” she replied. “Pig. You think I like having you touch me? You think I enjoy having to spend time with you?” She leaned forward, her delicate hand reaching out and caressing his colourless cheek in a mockery of a loving gesture. “You think you bring me pleasure? Sad, old fool.”

He fell to his knees, looking as if he might throw up.

“I scrub myself raw after every night I spend with you,” said the woman.

“Stop,” Sirius begged.

“I cry myself to sleep every night thinking I’m stuck with you for the rest of my life.”

 “Please.”

“Till death do you part,” she said in a hard voice.

Repeating her words lifelessly, Sirius gripped the sword with his shaking fingers.

‘Yes!’ Hermione cheered in her thoughts. He was breaking free of that siren’s song. He would rise up and cut the woman down. He would show her just how wrong her words really were, that he was strong and brave and practically perfect.

She was wrong.

He drew the sword closer, grasping the hilt in his hands and positioning the point for the kill. Just not the kill she anticipated. He twisted the sword in his hands and pushed the point of the blade against his stomach, pressing with enough force to slice through a nacre button and the wool of his waistcoat. The fabric grew darker around the sword as blood flowed from the wound he was inflicting on himself, and Hermione cringed at the pain she felt. Her stomach throbbed with a dull ache, the blood magic transferring a fraction of the agony he felt to her own body.

“Sirius,” she said, but her voice was lost to the storm.

 “You are an obligation,” the false Hermione continued mercilessly. “Old and useless.”

He grimaced from the pain and her insults, “I…”

“You are pathetic,” the woman talked over his weak protest, her voice still so sweet as if she were doing him a favour telling him all these hurtful lies. “I’m ashamed to have you touch me.”

“Sirius!” Dumbledore called. He had to shout against the storm. “Do not listen to it!”

“But it’s true…” Sirius gasped.

“Yes, it is,” goaded the woman.

“No, it isn’t!” Hermione shouted. “He’s wonderful! I like being married to him!”

“’Like’?” the woman laughed. “The best she can manage is ‘like’. Even as your life hangs on her feelings, she can’t say she loves you because she doesn’t. She can’t. She never will.”

Hermione froze as the woman turned those familiar brown eyes to her. Sirius held his painful position. He kept the blade pressed into his stomach, terrifyingly close to making himself into a sheath for Godric Gryffindor’s sword. He was going to kill himself because of what that woman thought of him? Sirius never cared what anyone thought. Foolish confidence what part of his genetic make-up. What did it matter what some fake woman said?

Slowly, too slowly considering Sirius was one muscle spasm away from dying, she realised what the woman was. It was not some false vision created by the cup. Something pulled randomly from the void could not have crippled Sirius so effectively. This vision was Sirius’s and his alone. His fears made real to taunt him.

That beautiful woman was, impossibly, what Sirius saw when he looked at her.

Those horrible words where what he thought went through her mind when she looked at him, kissed him, touched him.

She pushed through the winds that tried to keep her from his side. His eyes remained riveted on _her_ , the other Hermione, but not for long. Hermione reached out and slapped him. “You stupid git! You think I hate you? You think I call you old behind your back? You are a bloody idiot!”

He blinked and flinched as she hit him again; his despondent expression vanished as she slapped him again and was replaced by annoyance when she continued to assault him. “Stop it!”

“No!” she shouted and slapped him hard across his tear-streaked face. “You deserve it! Putting those words in my mouth!”

“What the hell am I supposed to think?” he roared and shot to his feet, towering over her. “You are brilliant and young and beautiful.”

“And so are you!” she shoved him backward, refusing to be intimidated. “Last I checked thirty-seven-year-olds were not queuing for their pensions!”

“I’m old—“

“You’re _older_. So are a lot of people. You think I want somebody my age? Have you _seen_ the blokes my age?” she demanded. “Idiots, the lot of them.”

“But has she said she loves you?” the woman interrupted, her cold voice a shadow of Hermione’s true sound. “She _likes_ you. She thinks _so highly_ of you. But she doesn’t love you. How could she?”

“Do you fucking mind? I am trying to have a conversation with my wife!” Sirius shouted and brought the sword down hard on the tiny chalice. The golden rim split under the force of his blow.

The woman shrieked and flew apart as the wind whipped through the office, tearing paintings from the walls and sending Dumbledore’s strange devices tumbling off their pedestals. Hidden in the protective cocoon of Sirius’s arms, Hermione felt the sting of the cup’s dying wrath. She could not imagine how painful the storm must have been for the two unprotected men.

“Perhaps once more just for good measure, Sirius,” Dumbledore said after a moment of silence filled their ears.

“Yeah,” replied the man, a bit numbly.

He gripped the sword and swung down with all the strength he had left, cleaving the damaged cup in two. The second time there was not so much as a squeak or a squall. Whatever had been tormenting them, it was gone now. Sirius gave each half of the cup a tentative prodding with the tip of the sword, more concerned with the golden object than with the blood on the weapon, his blood.

“Where were we?” he asked, a lopsided grin taking over his wan face.

“Oh, shut up. Are you all right?” Hermione asked, pulling at his clothes to see what damage he had inflicted on himself. “That sword killed a basilisk, you know. It’s probably still coated with venom. You need to get to the hospital wing.”

“It’s not coated in venom,” Sirius said, still grinning like an idiot. “It’s impregnated with it. Goblin-made.”

“What?” she shrieked, sounding far too similar to the woman in the cup for her taste. “We have to hurry! You’re dying!”

“You hear that, Dumbledore?” Sirius said, dropping into the only chair still upright after the storm. “She’s worried about me.”

The old wizard nodded and smiled. “Yes, if ever there was proof of how wrong your fears are, Mrs Black’s concern would be it,” Dumbledore said kindly. “However, I believe she is justified. Let us bring you to Poppy, shall we?”

Sirius’s head lolled to the side, as if it was simply too heavy for him to hold up any longer. He looked up at her, unhidden hope clear across his face. “You’ll stay?”

“Of course,” she said quickly, as if it was a question he needn’t have bothered asking. Because that was just the sort of question it was.

Trying to lift him was time wasted. He was too heavy for her and he was incapable of holding himself up. Like Remus that very morning, he was exhausted. Every ounce of his energy was spent in breaking free of the cup’s thrall and wielding the sword to destroy it. He was tired to the core. She hoped that was all he was. If the blade had absorbed the basilisk venom, Sirius had been poisoned the moment it pierced his skin. Harry had described the feeling of dying, the searing pain of the venom and the dull, drowsiness that followed. Sirius was hiding his discomfort well, but the blood bond she had made told her that he was in unbelievable pain even as he smiled up at her.

“Come on, Sirius,” she groaned and tried to pull him up from the chair again. She succeeded only in getting blood on her jumper.

“Perhaps another approach to this particular problem, Mrs Black,” suggested Professor Dumbledore. One wave of his wand had Sirius floating as if on an invisible bed. A second wave had that invisible bed rolling across a floor littered with paintings, scrolls, books and the magical devices that still attempted to whirl and gyrate despite being on their sides. Hermione followed the Headmaster’s swift pace through the castle to the hospital wing.

The door had been left open and a bed was already made as if Madam Pomfrey had been expecting a patient before the day was through. Although, if Remus had performed a similar task that morning, then perhaps she and Dumbledore had both known Sirius might need medical assistance.

“What’s happened?” the woman demanded sharply.

“The usual,” Sirius smiled as if he were drunk.

“It was worse than I feared,” said Dumbledore. “One of your miracles might be in order, Poppy.”

The woman shushed him impatiently though Hermione could see the pride on her face as she turned her attention to Sirius. The man groaned and complained lazily as she removed his shirt and examined the wound. Using the information she remembered from a Muggle book on poisonous snakes and the effect of their venom on humans, Hermione gathered that the wound was not infected by poison. Still it worried her just how many diagnostic spells Madam Pomfrey was casting over the single stab wound.

Finally, the woman applied a salve and bandaged his wound. “You’ll be just fine by morning, Mr Black.”

He toasted her diagnosis with the series of vials she handed him. “You promised to stay,” he slurred a reminder.

“I will,” Hermione promised.

“Then stay where I can keep an eye on you.” He made room for her and patted the bed. Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips disapprovingly at her patient moving around so much, but said nothing against Hermione staying in the same bed.

Hermione really did not think it right, but she kicked off her trainers and lay down beside him. Considering that he had nearly killed himself over what she thought, she would not risk him doing something stupid just because she turned down his request. He pulled her to him, fitting her every bend and curve into one of his own until they were locked together like pieces of a puzzle.

It was barely noon, but exhaustion claimed them both. 


	32. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which insecurities are assuaged.

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?”

Hermione leapt back, shocked at the loud shriek. It was two o’clock in the morning, and the house was dark; no one should have been awake in Grimmauld Place to yell at them, yet the harsh voice still greeted them, as unexpected and unwelcomed as old Walburga Black had been. Hermione looked around, expecting to see Molly Weasley in her dressing gown, holding a wooden spoon or wand threateningly as she waited, sleepless, to ambush them, but there was no living person in sight.

“Over here!” the woman snapped impatiently, drawing their eyes from the dark hallway to the painting hanging in it.

“Lily?” Sirius groaned.

“Don’t you ‘Lily’ me!” the portrait ordered. “Do you have any idea what you did to everyone taking off like that? Remus was gone for over thirty hours! He comes back half-dead from exhaustion, way beyond anything the full moon ever did to him, only for _you_ to run off next! Selfish bastard!”

Sirius tried to ignore her. He walked past her frame without offering a rebuttal, but that did not stop her following his path to continue berating him.

“And dragging that girl along with you!”

He paused and looked back over his shoulder at Hermione, his face halfway between amused and irritated. Lily could nag about his failings all she liked, but apparently he would not let her drag Hermione into it. “For the record, _she_ followed me,” he pointed out as he stopped in the sitting-room to pour himself a drink. “I don’t think anyone could _drag_ her anywhere she didn’t already want to go.”

“You—“

“And, technically, she’s not a girl,” he added. “She’s over legal age by several months, married – and quite happily, I might add – so I think it’s time you stopped calling her a girl. It’s an insult… and not to me. She brought you into this world; you ought to be polite to her before she decides to have you painted over.”

Hermione blushed and hurried away before Lily shouted so loud it woke the whole house.

She was happy Sirius was alive. She was happy his fears had been laid to rest along with the Horcrux. She was happy that he was no longer hiding the truth of his and Remus’s ‘Order business’ from her. While she was happy for Sirius and all these things, she did not want to have to explain them to everyone in the dead of night when they were woken by Lily’s window-rattling screams. That was the sort of conversation that went better with coffee and Kreacher’s excellent waffles than with crusty eyes and dressing gowns.

Safe from Lily’s outrage, Hermione threw her clothes into the hamper. Her trousers stunk like dragon filth and centuries of mould from the Lestrange vault; her jumper was streaked with Sirius’s blood where she had tried to pull him to the hospital wing and been held tight as a lifeline after Madam Pomfrey supplied him with healing potions. It was certainly more than she had bargained for when she dressed that morning.

Falling onto the mattress, she sighed blissfully at the thought of sleeping properly on a full-sized bed and without the audience of a nurse hovering over her.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sirius asked.

Brow knit with her confusion, she looked over at him. “To sleep…?”

“No, I don’t think so.” He shook his head slowly, keeping his eyes on hers, sending out his meaning with the barest of smirks.

She groaned. He could not be serious. “It’s two o’clock, Sirius. Go to sleep.”

“I had a kip.”

“You had unconsciousness,” she corrected. “It’s not the same.”

“I also had some very invigorating potions,” he grinned and settled down on top of her.

She pushed ineffectually at his chest. “Sirius, I’m tired. It’s been a very long couple of days.”

“But I’m still feeling very fragile,” he pouted. “How do I know you didn’t say all those things just to spare my feelings and make me destroy the Horcrux? You might really think I’m a dirty old man and secretly hate me and spend all your free time plotting to kill me the moment Old Voldy is defeated.”

“You’re not. I don’t. Now go to sleep.”

“You can say that all you like,” he sighed, dejected. “But there’s really only one way to prove it’s the truth.” His wounded expression was very convincing even with the mischievous glint in his eye and the grinding of his hips into hers.

“It’s Christmas morning,” she protested. “People don’t shag on Christmas morning.”

“I do. Well, I’d like to.” His smile was so charming, like an excited child begging to open just one present early if he promised not to tell anyone and to do all the washing up for a month, two months, a whole year. She couldn’t say no. The git was just impossible to resist.

“Fine,” she sighed. “You win.”

“Naturally. So I was thinking. If you want to prove how much you don’t hate me,” he paused, rolling over so that she was on top of him, straddling his hips, “you should take the lead.”

She was blushing. She was sure she was blushing. “I can’t do that.”

“You are Hermione Fucking Black. You can do anything you set your freakishly enormous brain to.”

Rolling her eyes, she had to laugh. “That did not sound nearly as complimentary as you intended it to.”

“Shut up and kiss me, you bloody swot.”

With a slap to his shoulder, she did as he instructed. It was glorious being in control of the action, taking what she wanted at the speed she wanted. She liked their kisses slow and lingering, and she would have enjoyed nothing more than to kiss him that way until dawn. Sadly, this was not about what made her happy; this was about making him happy and proving that she really did want to be with him. To do that, she had to kiss him like he kissed her.

Hands gripping his scalp, she kissed him hard, crushed his lips beneath hers and stole into his mouth with all the force of a conquering army. She had to admit that she loved his reactions to her attention, the groans and gasps he made whenever she felt confident enough to take some action on her own, which was not very often. His previous responses were weak by comparison to the deep, desirous moan that she pulled from him with just this one kiss.

“Damn,” he said, breath ragged. “You get to be on top from now on.”

“I’ve only just started.” She smirked a smirk to make him proud and ripped his shirt open.

“I think I might have taught you a little too well,” he moaned and fell back onto the mattress as she began licking her way from his collarbone to his navel and beyond.

If sex was, as Remus had once described it, just another subject she needed to learn, then this had to be her final exam. A practical application test, where she showed her teacher, the Dishonourable Professor Black, just what she had learned from their lessons and how she might use her book reading in a real-world situation. Taking the noises he was making as an indication of her forthcoming grade, she was performing to her usual and expected high standards.

As she pulled his trousers down off his hips, Hermione realised just how easy Sirius had it since October. There was not a single time they slept together that she was wearing trousers. Every time, she had been wearing a skirt. Skirts were instant access, no work, no pause. He could go from beginners kissing to advanced sex instantly. That was hardly fair.

Looking down at herself, she realised that she was wearing sleeping trousers. Of all the days to have sex in trousers, it had to be the day she was leading.

“Why the hell did you stop?” he demanded, not even trying to keep a calm tone.

“You’re practically naked,” she pointed out, “and I’m not. That’s hardly fair.” She really did dislike it when there was an inequity of clothing. He often managed to strip her to nothing while remaining fully clothed himself. On those meetings, when she could find a thought through the red fog of desire, she felt humiliatingly inferior.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Not fair at all. I deserve something to look at, too.” He propped himself up on his elbows and watched her. “Go on, get naked.”

She could feel the heat in her cheeks and knew she was blushing again. Considering how she had just kissed and licked her way down his body, her blush was hardly appropriate, but she was embarrassed to have him watch her. She was far from pretty enough to deserve that sort of attention. The kind of lust she saw in his eyes was meant for someone more attractive, a woman…

 _That_ woman…

“Sirius,” she began.

“Shit, what did I do now?” he groaned.

“That woman…”

“I didn’t do any woman, I swear!”

She smiled at his quick denial, like a teenager caught red-handed by a professor. “No, that woman who came out of the cup.”

“You. That was you who came out of the cup.” He frowned. “…Well, not exactly you…”

Her shoulders fell along with her smile. She had been so sure he was going to say something wonderful about how that was what she looked like to him, but his scrutinising eye told her the truth. He was studying her, picking out the imperfections that the vision had lacked. His absolute, tactless honesty would kick in any second and tell her that she was dumpier, wider in the hips and smaller in the chest.

“You are far more pleasant to be around,” he smiled. “Even when you’re cross with me, I have not been tempted to commit suicide.”

“I know that part, git!” she snapped. “I care about how she looked.”

“What about it?” he questioned indifferently, offering as close to a shrug as he could manage while leaning on his elbows. “She looked like you.”

“No, she did not.” Hermione tore the clothes from her body. “Look at me. I am not that woman.”

He did look. Happily, hungrily, he looked. His eyes raked over her body, following every curve, pausing on the spots he found most enjoyment in. She already knew those spots from the extra attention he gave them. His eyes rested for a long moment on her left shoulder with the birthmark he loved to kiss before moving to her ear. He loved kissing the sensitive skin just behind her ears. He lay there, naked and wanting, staring at her for several long minutes.

“You are every inch that woman,” he said with so much conviction she couldn’t find it in herself to argue. The man was experienced enough not to be delusional; his vision was not clouded by love, perhaps slightly distorted by lust occasionally, but not enough to have her rejection act as his greatest fear. Still, it was ridiculous.

Something of her trepidation must have shown in the slump of her shoulders or the arm rising to shield her breasts because he was up and holding her inside a single heartbeat. It was wonderful being wrapped in his arms – the ultimate security blanket, one that could not only comfort but actively soothe and protect her.

As if making her point, he kissed her and promised, “I will prove just how beautiful you really are, even if it takes the rest of my life.” He paused, “Given my track record, that might not be very much longer… so I think I’d better start now.”

“I’m supposed to be proving I don’t hate you, remember?” she said with a weak laugh.

“You’ve already done that,” he smirked. “But who’s to say we can’t do both at the same time? You were doing a very good job before, and I very much liked the view from down there.”

“Git,” she muttered, blushing again.

“Whatever you say, pet,” he grinned. “Now where were we again? Somewhere around the trousers, I think.”


	33. On Wands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione gets studious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major apologies for the delay. I had surgery on my dominant hand and am stuck using only my left. Did I ever mention just how UN-ambidextrous I am? (It is sad how long this note has taken to type.)

The scream ripped through her dreams, forcing her eyes open and adrenaline into her veins. She scrambled to cover herself and find her wand simultaneously. They were under attack. It was the woman in the cup come back to kill Sirius. It was Lily finishing the argument from the night before. It was Sirius realising what a horrible mistake he had made.

“Dammit, woman!” Sirius bellowed from his spot sprawled on top of her. “Why are you shouting? I am a fucking adult and this is my bloody house! I can sleep where I want, for as long as I want, with whomever I want, in whatever state of undress I bloody want!”

“Where have you been?” the unmistakable voice of Molly Weasley demanded with as much anger as Sirius had offered her.

“Here! In bed! Sleeping!” he shouted. “Now, piss off!” He grabbed the wand from Hermione’s hand and sent a spell across the room to slam the door in the indignant woman’s face.

“Shouldn’t have done that,” Hermione groaned. “She’s just worried.”

“Well, she needs to find a better way to show it,” he griped and finally lifted his head off her bare chest, a charming smile taking over his creased cheeks and annoyed scowl. “I’ve always thought breakfast in bed was a fine way of showing concern.”

“I’ll remember that,” replied the girl dryly.

“You do that,” he smirked. “Here.” He handed the wand back to her.

She held her hands up to reject it despite knowing it was the same one he had taken from her; the wand had worked perfectly for him, so it had to be his. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she could see that it was her wand – 10 ¾ inches, vine wood polished from where she gripped it in exactly the same way each time.

That wasn’t right; a wand rarely worked well for anyone but its owner. Only a truly powerful witch or wizard could control another’s wand, and even then it took massive concentration. Sirius was half-asleep and still recovering from his encounter with the Horcrux. There was no way he could have controlled her wand that easily. Something else was at work here. Perhaps his wand was of similar materials. Wandmaking was the most closely-guarded of magical arts, so secret there were no books published on the topic expect wandlore, which was more akin to old wives’ tales and hardly worth basing any real theory on. It was all she had, though. If his wand was of either vine wood or dragon heartstrings, like hers, then he might have better control of the magic.

“What?” he asked as she continued to stare at him.

“What’s your wand made of?” she asked without preface.

He quirked an eyebrow and looked over to his wand on the table next to him. “Blackthorn, I think. Why?”

She ignored the question. “What’s the core?”

“Unicorn hair,” he said. “What’s this about?”

“You used my wand, Sirius.”

“I gave it back,” replied the man, as if that set right any wrong he might have done in borrowing it without asking.

“That’s not the point.” She pulled on a shirt, determined to have some level of dignity while talking to him about this. Such ease of magical transference was unusual, and she needed all the information she could to research it when she got back to Hogwarts. “You used my wand. Barely awake, you made a wand with completely different core and wood work perfectly. That cannot be normal.”

“Was that meant to be a compliment?” he wondered. “Because it sounded rather close to an insult.”

 “It’s strange. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Well, that’s my shirt,” he replied.

“Do you me to give it back?”

“I’m making a point,” he bit out, sounding very close to annoyed. “That’s my shirt. It’s made of different fabric, cut to a different pattern, but it’s still a shirt. It doesn’t fit you as well, but it does the job as best as it can considering that it wasn’t made for you. Wands work the same way.”

He was so close to winning the argument. It made sense, very good sense, but it was wrong. “Magic does not work like a shirt. If the wand isn’t yours it won’t work, not well anyway.”

“Try mine.” He held it out for her to take.

“No, I don’t want to blow up the house!”

He gripped her hand and slapped the wand handle into her palm. As with her own wand, she felt the magic tingle when it touched her, like bubbles forming just beneath the surface of her skin. She had touched other wands, usually Ron or Harry’s when she was cleaning up after them in the common room or after practicing spells in an empty classroom; on those occasions, she had never felt this kind of reaction.

She flicked the wand and her dressing gown flew across the room to her.

“Maybe because we’re married…?” she reasoned weakly, sounding unconvinced even to her own ears.

“My parents never managed it,” he shrugged and stood. “Father once tried using my mother’s to punish me for breaking his wand– I was only five and didn’t know any better – it exploded in his face and broke half the windows on the ground floor… Then again, I caught James using Lily’s wand once to cast a locator charm when he had misplaced his. Whatever, it’s not that important.”

Hermione did not share his indifference. She sat deep in thought and completely unaffected as her husband paraded around the room naked, too busy considering what the difference in reactions might mean to feel either inferior or aroused. She would need to ask James and Lily about their wands as soon as she had showered. At the thought, she jumped up and raced to the washroom, leaving Sirius completely bewildered. The poor man had never been witness to Hermione’s single-minded pursuit of information.

“James,” Hermione called as she left the bedroom. “James?”

“Happy Christmas!” the painted man cried. “What did you bring me?”

“What was your wand made of?”

The man’s smiled dropped. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me. It’s _Christmas_ – gifts, drink, songs, Christmas.”

“Yes, yes,” she waved it away. “But what was your wand made of?”

“Mahogany, if you must know. Dragon heartstrings. What does it matter?” he practically snapped, annoyed that she had not gotten him anything for the holiday.

His consternation was lost on her. “What about Lily? What was hers made of?”

“Willow,” he said, now slightly concerned for her sanity.

“Willow…” the girl repeated. “So different…” She walked off, bypassing the kitchen in favour of the library.

“I worry about her sometimes,” James muttered to Sirius. “I think you might have gotten a crazy one.”

She sat in the library scouring the few books on shared magic that she could find until Harry and Ginny physically dragged her from the room. She protested the whole way, but settled down at the table to eat when Harry threatened to have Sirius lock the library door with a spell she could never break. Knowing the man capable of performing such a spell, she sat and ate.

“Well, since we’re all here now,” Molly paused to give Hermione a hard and dissatisfied look, “perhaps we could have our Christmas.”

They moved to the sitting room and tore into the presents that had managed to go unopened that morning. Harry got some very nice Quidditch supplies, while Ron got the ubiquitous sweater and a manual on chess strategy. Ginny squealed equally at the broom cleaning kit and the palate of Muggle makeup, odd girl that she was. Hermione had the most to open since she had not paid any attention to the wrapped gifts when she woke that morning. She tore into them now at everyone’s insistence. She got a book on Runes, a book on dragons, a book on tarot cards (obviously a gag gift), a book on raising children (clearly a hint from Molly), a book on planning for divorce (a gift from her mother) and a book on Renaissance architects, inventors and artists because she had commented to Remus that she was intrigued by the multifaceted genius of such men.

There were just a few more gifts, all for her and all wrapped in exactly the same way. They were the size and shape of books, but as she lifted one of the presents, the pale blue paper flexed and fell as the object inside drooped in her hands. If it was a book, it was certainly not like any that she had ever held, which was saying a great deal; even paperback books held their shape when lifted off the floor. This was soft, yielding, like cloth.

Her eyes flew to Tonks, who was paying Hermione no attention, kissing Remus on the cheek and enjoying being openly in love. Next she looked to Ginny, who was looking slightly bored, like she wanted to go clean her broom or try out some of her new makeup. That left only Sirius. He looked innocent enough as he chatted with Harry, but when he looked her way there was no mistaking the mischief in his eye.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” he inquired.

“No, I don’t think I will,” she said. “It feels like something I’m going to have to return.”

He smirked, knowingly. “Maybe not.”

The conversation was drawing attention back to Hermione and the remainder of her presents. If she did not move quickly, they would start trying to open them for her. That would be far too embarrassing.

“I think I’ll save them for when I visit my parents,” she hedged and stole back the remaining unopened presents from Tonks’s eager hands.

She ran up the stairs as quickly as she could, dropping the gifts as if they were electrified.

“I spent good money on those,” Sirius reprimanded.

“What were you thinking giving me that sort of thing in front of everyone? Even Ginny and Tonks had the sense to give them privately!” She pointed accusingly at the presents he was lifting off the floor. They seemed so innocent with the icy blue paper and virginal white ribbons, like Sirius with his pretty face and grey eyes, always looking the angel.

“We’re in private now.” He pressed a gift into her hands, “Open it.”

“No,” she glared.

“I’ll open it for you, then.” He sat on the bed and selected one of the gifts. The paper tore under his fingers as Hermione flinched, anticipating lace and boning and silk ribbons. “Happy Christmas, swot.”

Not really wanting to look at whatever miniscule bit of lace he had the nerve to call underwear, she look up and let her jaw drop. “That’s…”

“A jumper, I know.”

She snatched it from his hands and held it up by the shoulders. It was just a jumper; soft and expensive, possibly even silk, but still just a jumper.

“I heard everyone was buying you books,” he said before she could even ask. “And you said you didn’t have enough clothes to fill your half of the closet, so I bought you some. I’m quite clever and considerate, you know.”

“So the other two aren’t knickers either?” she asked hopefully.

“No, I saved the knickers to give to you tonight,” he grinned and threw the other two gifts to her. “Open them and put them on. It’ll annoy your mother to see you in clothes I bought you.” He smiled like the imp he was and left her to get ready.

She had been so focused on researching and then on her presents, that she nearly forgot about going to visit her parents for dinner. The idea held none of the appeal it normally did. Her mother’s letters had not grown any more complimentary toward Sirius since the wedding; the book on divorce was subtle compared to some of the letters she had sent begging Hermione to reconsider the marriage, to find a nice, sensible boy her own age to date for a while. Those letters were practically glowing given the ones she sent to Sirius berating him for defiling her baby and threatening to call the police and have him charged as a paedophile.

Still, it was tradition to spend the evening with her parents regardless of their opinion of her husband or the clothes he bought her.

The jumper was tighter than she normally wore, but as something to wear for looks rather than warmth, it would do well enough. A skirt came from the next wrapped bundle, and, finally, a scarf that was definitely worth more than her whole wardrobe put together. To add to her feeling of inferiority, Sirius had left a box with a new pair of heels in the closet for her.

“Sirius,” she called as she wobbled slightly on the stairs. “Should I worry that you are so good at picking out clothes for me?”

James’ snort seriously diminished the effect of his wolf whistle.

“Shut up, you,” Sirius ordered his friend. “No need to worry. I let Ginny loose with a wad of cash in Muggle London. She picked it all out.”

“Oh, that’s all right then,” Hermione agreed. She tried to prolong the moment she would have to face her mother, but Sirius would not let her run off to thank Ginny for the gifts. He dragged her from the house, entirely too eager to irritate the young woman’s mother in every way he possibly could.


	34. Recitals & Realisations

The lights were on and the wreath was hanging cheerfully on the front door, advertising to the whole of Oxford that the house at Number 106, Banbury Road was a warm and welcoming place. Any year but this one and that would have been true, but this year was different. This year, Hermione wasn’t alone. This year, she had a husband in addition to her secrets. The secrets were easy to keep quiet; the husband was not so easily silenced.

“Behave yourself or you will regret it,” Hermione warned, in no way joking.

“I always behave,” sniffed Sirius indignantly.

Snorting her disbelief, she put her finger to the buzzer and waited nervously for her mother to open the door. It was taking too long. Why was it taking too long? Her mother usually ran the length of the house to throw the door wide and wrap her daughter in a bone-breaking hug.

The lights were on. Someone ought to be coming to the door. Minutes passed and panic began to build. Had the Death Eaters found a way through the wards? Were her parents dead?

“Just wait,” Sirius held her back as she reached for the door handle.

Another minute of growing worry ended with the door opening and her father sighing. “Welcome home,” he smiled, a bit of strain showing on his face. “Your mother’s… still getting ready.”

“Hoping I’d get bored and wander off to the pub?” Sirius smiled, knowingly.

“Something like that.”

Hermione frowned. For a man who had never met any girl’s parents before hers, he certainly seemed to know how his mother-in-law worked. A thought came to her, one she found rather disturbing. Perhaps he understood her mother so well because Martha was very much like his own. From what she had seen of and heard about Walburga Black, she was nothing like Martha Granger. Martha was loving and open-minded… except where Sirius was concerned; in that one respect she was as stubborn and prejudiced as the mad Black matriarch was about Muggle-borns.

“Come in, come in,” Phillip stood aside and gestured. “There’s brandy in the sitting-room or lager in the kitchen.”

“Lager,” Sirius said without pause and made for the kitchen like he had been visiting the house every Christmas since he was born.

Phillip leaned in and hugged his daughter. “Have I mentioned how much I like that one? Smart bloke, much better than that ginger you were after before.”

“Too bad mum can’t see it,” she grumbled and held her father tight. She could not express how grateful she was for his acceptance of Sirius. If he hated her husband as much as her mother seemed to, she doubted there would have been a wedding, which would not have ended well for any of the Grangers, least of all Hermione.

“She’ll come around, especially if he’s not going anywhere,” he commented, pausing on their way to the kitchen. “Is he?”

“No, he’s not going anywhere.” She breathed a quiet laugh. He could not leave her even if he wanted to, which, much to her surprise, he didn’t. Looking at the man leaning on the kitchen counter with his bottle of lager and pleasant smile, she had a hard time believing he wanted to stay married to her, that her opinion mattered enough to make him attempt suicide. There was something more than a little odd there. She was not given time enough to contemplate it, however, as her mother came into the kitchen.

“Hermione!” Martha Granger cried and gripped her daughter in a hug so tight Hermione really did lose the ability to breathe. “My baby!”

“Mum!” she gasped with the last of her oxygen.

“Martha, leave the girl alone,” Phillip chided with considerably more gentleness than Hermione would have liked given that her head was growing light from want of air.

“It’s just I haven’t seen her in ages,” the woman complained. “You look lovely. I don’t recognise that skirt.”

“Thank you, mum. Sirius bought it for me,” Hermione replied, narrowing her eyes at him in warning. He just smirked as the woman took on the appearance of someone who had swallowed a lemon.

Somehow Martha managed to keep her mouth shut about the skirt and instead began to coo and pet her daughter on the head, something she had stopped doing around the time Hermione started Kindergarten. “How’s school, Mimi?”

“Mimi?” Sirius muttered quietly.

“Our girl’s old nickname,” Phillip explained in an equally low voice. “Poor girl couldn’t even pronounce her own name as a child, came out ‘Mimi’. It just stuck after that, until she got so bossy she told us to stop, cheeky thing.”

“Mimi,” he repeated with a smirk. “I like it.”

“You would,” Hermione snipped at him before turning back to her mother. “Mum, you haven’t called me that in years. Please don’t start now.”

“Might as well ask her to stop breathing, my darling,” Phillip sighed. “She’s been doing nothing but look at baby pictures and replay all your old recital videos.”

The blood drained from her face. “Recital videos?” she repeated, horrified.

Sirius grinned. “What’s that?”

“Nothing!” Hermione said quickly. “Nothing at all. It will never be mentioned again. Ever.”

“But you looked so pretty, Mimi,” her mother insisted, either blind to her daughter’s discomfort or seizing on it to form a rift between the girl and her husband. “I spent so much time fixing your hair… don’t you want him to see?”

“No!”

“Yes,” Sirius smiled. “I’m dying to see a recital video. Whatever that is.”

“What it is,” Hermione groaned, “is horribly embarrassing. There’s a reason why I quit ballet, mum.”

Martha waved the logic and complaint away. “The video is in the player. Go show your husband how adorable you were. She was only six… just eleven years ago. How quickly time flies.”

Hermione took his hand and dragged him from the kitchen, glaring her anger at the carpet and walls and paintings. So that was her game. She was trying to make Sirius feel horrid for being so much older than her. If he was even half as observant as she knew he was, he would be contemplating the age gap again, thinking that eleven years ago, when his wife was six, he was twenty-six and already in prison. She turned to say something to deflect his doubtlessly foul mood only to find him grinning.

“What?” she asked.

“I want to see the recital video,” he explained.

“No, that is not a good idea. Let’s pretend we did. You just have to say something about how adorable I was and she’ll not say another word,” she said, panic forcing her voice to unbearably high levels.

He looked at her meaningfully. “If she knows I have tattoos just by looking at me with my shirt on, then she’ll know I haven’t watched the video. Now stop stalling and get it started.”

‘Stupid git always winning arguments,’ she scowled and turned the television on. The tape was in the machine and queued up, so this had clearly been part of her mother’s plan from the start. Hermione dropped onto the couch and covered her face as the piano music started. She had not seen the video in years, but she remembered this recital as well as any other. It was humiliating.

“I don’t see you,” he commented, disappointed. The slow piano music continued a moment before Sirius announced, “Oh! There you are!” He fell silent, watching little Hermione perform her group piece with three other girls from her class.

She wished he would say something, even if it was something rude. Not knowing what he was thinking was torturous. Daring her own embarrassment, she glanced at him. He was staring intently at the television, his face devoid of any clue to what was passing between his ears. If he was amused with her appearance or ashamed of himself it didn’t show. She looked over at the television, curious if she could see herself through his eyes, but she was no longer dancing. Another quartet of girls was at the centre of the small studio, Hermione and her group had moved off to the side.

She was still there, though, little Mimi.

She looked past the horrifyingly pink leotard and fluffy tutu, past the dance she had not gotten right despite hours of practice, and remembered what she had done between the group dance and her solo performance. She had thrown herself down on the polished oak floor and read. That was what Sirius was watching her do now, read alone in the corner while the other girls danced or had their mothers fuss over their costumes.

“You haven’t changed,” he said quietly. It was the nicest thing he could have said. Fighting the tears that threatened to ruin her makeup, she kissed his cheek and sat closer to watch the rest of the video.

As the screen turned to blue and the tape rewound itself to the beginning, Sirius took a breath, readying himself to speak. Hermione knew the sweet comment could not have been the end of it. His honesty and lack of tact would come out to play now. She closed her eyes and started to count to ten, calming herself before he even spoke.

“I was thinking about your wand question,” he said unexpectedly.

Her eyes flew open and she looked at him as if he had sprouted a second mouth, “What?”

“Why we can use each other’s wands,” he reminded her. “I was thinking it might be a question of compatibility. Given that you could find a new wand if yours broke, it’s clearly not the only one for you. So maybe there’s another compatible wand out there for you and for me, and we both happen to have the same ones.”

Thinking about it, that did make sense, but so had his shirt analogy. Compatibility of people and wands; what if it was not that complicated? What if it was simply compatibility of the people using the wands? James was able to use his wife’s wand because he and she were compatible. While Orion and Walburga—

“Did your parents get on well?” she asked.

“Merlin, no! Hated each other from day one,” he laughed darkly. “Arranged marriage.”

“So is ours,” she reminded him.

“Yes, but I actually like you.”

“Thank you,” she said with slight flush. “So they hated each other and couldn’t use each other’s wands. But James could use Lily’s…”

“You think it has something to do with how much we like each other?” he questioned, the corner of his mouth rising with his eyebrow.

“It’s a thought,” she muttered, unsure what to make of his smirk. By her own words, the fact that he had used her wand so easily while half-asleep meant that he liked her rather a lot, and the same went for her. She shook her head, refusing to start on the slippery slope of worrying whether her fake husband actually had feelings for her. A simple marriage of convenience, that was what she wanted.

“Come on, dinner has to be ready by now,” said the girl hurriedly, stood and walked from the sitting-room without looking at him.

She paused in the kitchen doorway, watching her parents finish up dinner. Martha easily moved between basting the roast, mashing the potatoes and tossing the salad while Phillip wove his path around her, collecting plates and cutlery and the cutting board for the chicken. It was a dance she had watched them perform nearly every night of her childhood; two people working seamlessly together to complete a single task.

“You know,” Sirius whispered, “if they had magic, I think they could use each other’s wands.”

It was true. They were perfect together. Oh, they fought, every couple did, but never for long and never seriously enough for Hermione to fear their separation. This was what marriage was to her and what she had always wanted.

Martha turned in time to see her daughter wiping the tears from her eyes. “Oh! What’s the matter, sweetheart? Did he not like your video?”

Hermione laughed. “No, it’s not that.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” she shook her head and forced the tears down, moving instead to the pleasant and safe subjects she always stuck to when she came to visit. To say what she wanted was impossible. To say ‘because I’ll never have what you and dad have’ would mean admitting to her parents that the marriage she had entered was a lie. It was a pretty lie with lots of gifts and kisses and sex, but it was not a real marriage, not one like Martha and Phillip had. Sirius was kind and handsome and rich, but he would never be _that_ sort of husband, the _real_ sort.


	35. Unnatural Behaviour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which intelligence is no match for issues of self-worth and pigheaded belief in the feelings of others.

“How’d it go?” James cried eagerly as soon as the door shut.

Hermione sighed and hung up her coat, replying, “Sirius is joining my dad’s football club.”

“Oh, that is going to be hilarious!” Lily grinned. “Take lots of pictures!”

“Fascinating, really,” James said in a bored voice that indicated that he did not understand they were discussing sports. “But did your mum attack him with the carving knife? What happened?”

“She just got a little tipsy,” Hermione said.

“A little?” Sirius snorted. “The woman practically suffocated you.”

“It was only a hug,” she insisted, though her shoulder and neck already ached from how tightly her mother had held her after polishing off an entire bottle of sherry singlehandedly. Martha was, thankfully, not a mean drunk, but she was prone to emotional outbursts whenever she had more than a single glass of wine. Still, she refused to let Sirius make her out to be anything but a loving and concerned mother. “The home movies were worse.”

“You were adorable with your cabbage bun and enormous skirt,” Sirius insisted, “running off to read in the corner.”

It was a compliment, but she could not help feeling that he was making fun of her. “It’s been a very long day, so if you’ll excuse me.” She left them in the entrance hall discussing the evening and what exactly football was as she trudged up the stairs.

Sirius took so long learning all he could about the game from Lily that Hermione was practically asleep by the time he slid under the covers beside her. “So,” he whispered and pulled her close, “are you going to tell me what you were crying about?”

“M’not crying,” she mumbled and groaned, feeling like this was a very boring dream.

“Not now, you’re not. You were before,” he pressed, “in the kitchen, after the video.”

She shook her head. “Uh-uh, you’ll be cross.”

“I’m never cross with you,” he assured her quietly. “What was it?”

His insistence drew the image of her parents into her mind, watching them dance around one another so elegantly, working separately yet united and in perfect harmony. Seeing it again only made the feeling of unease grow and tears prick at her closed eyes.

“M’never gonna have that,” she muttered and cried herself into a fitful sleep. 

When morning came, it weighed heavily down on her, making it hard to breathe. She had not slept well, haunted by dreams of what she could never have, a Sirius that was not real. Thinking about it, she was surprised she had grown attached enough to want a real marriage from him; his eagerness for her company in his bed would have been enough to turn anyone’s head, really, but she thought herself better grounded than that. If it were not for The Bloody Amendment, she would not have fallen victim to hedonism and a pretty face. It was time to give up on ridiculous fantasies and see the reality of the husband she had. What Sirius was, she had to agree, was a good man and a brilliant lover. What he was _not_ , she was forced to admit, was a man who loved her and would be her complement as James was to Lily, Arthur to Molly and Phillip to Martha. He would never be her other half.

‘Well,’ she thought, ‘at least I realised it before I was stupid enough to fall in love with him.’

She had assumed that with that decision and realisation the burden would lift, but it still lay on her chest, heavy and oppressive. Sirius was still weighing down on her thoughts and body. Literally, in the case of the latter; the man was sleeping atop her like she was his pillow. They had woken in that same pose the previous morning. She assumed it was simply because she had been naked and he had fallen asleep enjoying the feel of her bare breasts, but she was fully clothed now and he lay with his ear to her heart, not his face to her breast.

“Sirius,” she groaned. “Get up.”

“No, I like it here,” he proclaimed and made himself an immovable object atop her.

“And I wondered how I got so attached…” she mumbled under her breath with a sad smile and shake of her head. 

“What was that?” he asked without moving.

“Nothing,” she said. “But since I have your attention: Get off me.”

“Not until you tell me what you said.”

“I said I need the loo.”

“Liar,” he waggled a finger in the air disapprovingly. “Truth. What did you say?”

She sighed. “I said I wonder why you bother even having a pillow.”

“A fine question, Mrs Black,” he said and rolled over to lay with his head on his underused pillow. “I suppose it would look strange to only have the one pillow on such a big bed – appearances are ever so important. And also because you are so rarely here, I need a pillow of my very own.”

“Couldn’t you use this one?” she asked, throwing the pillow she had been using at him.

“Another fine question,” he agreed. “I could, but then it wouldn’t be yours anymore. And it wouldn’t smell like you, so I would have nothing to keep me going on those tediously long nights when you are too busy to fool around in broom cupboards with me. I hate those nights.” He hugged the pillow to the side of his face and inhaled deeply, luxuriating in the scent she had left on it.

“You worry me,” she commented.

“We’re married; I’d like it if you felt something for me, even if it’s concern for my sanity.”

She nodded slowly, brows folding together as worry began to stir in her thoughts. She turned quickly and hurried into the washroom, all too eager to escape his presence. Her reflection in the mirror did nothing to reassure her; it looked every bit as confused as she felt.

‘What was that?’ she asked, though the answer was plain. It truly did seem that Sirius actually liked her. That was simply unnatural. It was much easier to accept that he was playing around and having fun pretending to be a husband.

“He’s just acting the git,” she insisted with a stubborn shake of her head.

By the time she was wrapping her hair in a towel and her body in a dressing gown, she was entirely convinced that the man was simply enjoying playing the role. She stepped from the washroom, expecting Sirius to be back to normal. She moved to the closet, paying no mind to whether Sirius was still in bed or hugging the pillow, so she practically screamed when he slid up behind her and placed a gentle kiss at the nape of her neck. Hermione expected a joke to follow or a comment so gushing that she would know it was all a game to him, but he said nothing after the kiss. He simply walked away.

He did the same thing later that day as she stood on the landing talking to Ginny, placing a kiss on her cheek as he passed on his way to the kitchen.

“Why is he doing that?” she muttered with annoyance.

Ginny smirked. “I know.”

“Yes, we all know,” Hermione sighed. “He’s playing the role of the good husband, but there’s no one here he needs to fool.”

“Shakespeare,” the younger girl all but sang as she skipped down the stairs.

“The lady doth _not_ protest too much,” she grumbled to no one in particular and all but stomped down the stairs. She marched herself toward the library, throwing the door open. “Oh, hello.”

“Hello,” Harry said with a wide smile, too wide a smile. It was the sort of smile he wore when she caught him reading a Quidditch strategy book when he ought to have been studying. It was the smile Sirius and Remus each wore as they stood beside him. “What are you doing?”

“It’s the library, Harry. I’m looking for a book,” she said.

“Right. Library. Books. Good.”

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Me?” Harry asked, his voice going slightly wobbly. “Yeah, fine. Great. I’m going to go.” He edged around her awkwardly, sliding the door shut behind him. She could hear his feet slapping the floor as he ran down the corridor away from the library.

“Is he alright?” she questioned the two men still standing with strange smiles on their faces.

Remus nodded his head. “Yeah, he’s just worried about… you know…”

“Voldemort,” Sirius said quickly. “The big battle.”

“And all that.”

“Right,” she said, glancing worriedly between the pair. They kept their eyes locked on her as she moved away from them toward the shelves. When she was beyond their sight, she swore she heard the sounds of a scuffle, harsh whispers and someone being shoved and slapped. Concerned, she poked her head out and the two men froze where they stood, the huge, false smiles pulling at their mouths after a beat.

“What’s going on?” the young woman demanded.

“Nothing!” Remus said.

“You’re a rubbish liar.”

Sirius cleared his throat and straightened his waistcoat. “Everything’s fine, pet. Just a friendly debate.”

“What about?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Nothing important.” His tone was final and directed at Remus more than her. He shrugged and left the room. She didn’t see him again until well after lunch when he sat down on the couch beside her, so close he might as well have sat in her lap.

“Did you finish your debate?” she questioned.

“Hm? Oh, no,” he shook his head. “Moony won’t let it go. Worse, he’s got James started on me now, too.”

“What about?”

“Ah, well, that’s the thing. They seem to think—They want me to—That is to say, I—“ he stopped and pulled and hand through his hair. “Nothing.”

Hermione frowned, confused by her husband’s inability to form a coherent thought. It was not natural from her experience with him; even when inebriated he was well-spoken. Still, whenever he caught her alone, his words seemed to fail him. He spoke in odd half-sentences that never amounted to anything and inevitably ended with a shake of his head or a defeated shrug. It was so off-putting, she took to avoiding him, reading in the noisy sitting room despite how loud everyone was, staying up late so that Sirius was too tired or too drunk to attempt conversation with her in their bedroom, waking inconveniently early to escape his presence in the mornings. It was embarrassing to admit that she was sneaking around to evade him, but it was better than dealing with this new, odd behaviour.

“Hermione,” Sirius said.

She froze just outside their bedroom, hand still on the knob and door slightly cracked. She thought him still asleep, but clearly she had woken him in her attempt to flee.

“She left,” James told him. “ _Again_.”

Sirius groaned. “I can’t manage it.”

“Man up! Get your arse up, track her down and just say it!” James shouted and would probably have slapped his friend if he were capable of it.

“Easy for you to say,” the man replied darkly. “You’re not the one who’s going to be stuck with her for the rest of your life regardless of what she says about it.”

“What the hell happened to you? You used to be the king of women.”

“None of them were Hermione,” Sirius said with a pained laugh.

“I’ll tell her then.”

“Don’t you dare,” her husband snarled. “If I catch you anywhere near her, I’ll have you painted over.”

“Tosser,” James spat and marched from the frame, walking through the painting nearest her and commenting quietly. “Your husband is a right bastard, just so you know.”

“I’m just starting to see that,” she replied in a harsh whisper, eyes stinging.

Stuck with her. That was what Sirius had said. He was stuck with her. The bastard.

She really should not have been shocked. That was precisely what she had told him when they signed the marriage contract, that he was stuck with her. However often he said the reverse, she knew that her way was correct.

“That’s fine,” she said to no one but herself. “If that’s how he feels, then that’s the sort of marriage we’ll have. I can deal with that. I am an adult.”

Gathering her dignity, she marched herself down the stairs into the kitchen, eating her breakfast and tasting none of it. Molly prattled on about she-didn’t-care-what until Ginny sat down and started talking about something-that-mattered-very-little. The chatter filled her head, keeping her from thinking about how she might spend the next sixty years making Sirius’s life a living hell. Satisfying as that would have been, she would much rather think about nothing. She avoided the man for the rest of the day and most of the night, again waking early and shimmying out from under him before he woke in the morning.

Thankfully it was the third of January, the day before they returned to Hogwarts. As Sirius sat down to breakfast, she climbed the stairs to their bedroom and started packing for the trip back. She was grateful to have a task to throw herself into so fully. Folding and arranging her clothes was as good a task as any, and it took quite a long time; Sirius had surprised her with more clothes after Christmas, and she had considerably more to find room for in her trunk than when she had left school just two weeks earlier.

She focused on the task through the evening until dinner, then again the following morning, taking every spare moment that Sirius might have tried to talk to her to steal herself away to fold and arrange and repack her trunk.

“Did I do something wrong?” Sirius asked, his face cavalier but his voice tainted with worry. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“No,” she replied lightly, keeping her attention focused on her trunk. “I have a lot to pack. I wasn’t expecting so many presents this year.” She demonstrated the truth of her statement by attempting to put the last of her books into the already overflowing trunk.

“You know you can leave something behind,” he offered. “There’s plenty of room, and I can bring whatever you want with me when I come visit.”

 _When_ , not _if_. He was already planning to ambush her in the corridors at night. Was it really a surprise that she had been so convinced of his feelings?

“No need,” she sighed and stood back to cast a miniaturisation charm on the few items that were too large or oddly shaped to fit. With the shrunken items nestled neatly into her trunk, it looked as if she had never set foot inside Number 12, Grimmauld Place; every hanger on her side of the closet was empty, every shelf bare. There was nothing of Hermione left.

“Well, you could at least leave that damned book your mother gave you,” he griped. “I’ll use it as kindling.”

“You will not! That was a gift from my mother! Gifts, as you once pointed out, are meant to be used. It’s etiquette.”

“Let’s hope you’ll never have to use that particular gift, shall we.”

He fell silent but refused to leave the room, preferring instead to watch her rearrange the contents of her trunk so that it was perfectly balanced. She was not normally quite so fastidious about her packing, but she was trying to stall the conversation he had still not managed to have with her. She could feel how edgy he was as he built up the courage to begin.

What little remained of his cool composure and charm abandoned him the second she turned and pulled her trunk from the closet. When forced to look her in the eye, he began to stammer slightly as he had over every private conversation he had attempted the past week. “Hermione,” he began, but faltered and stopped. “I— There’s—”

Again he could not manage the words.

His energy found an outlet in his feet as he started to pace the room. Every time he turned, his face was set and mouth open to speak, but the second he saw her that determination fell away. She wanted to tell him it was fine, that she knew what he was trying to tell her, that she did not love him and that she did not take it personally that he did not love her. She wanted to, but she didn’t, because she did take it personally. He had no right to treat as if she had no feelings. His games of make-believe hurt her because they had given her a glimmer of hope that she might actually get the real marriage she wanted. Knowing it was all a ruse pained her all the more for his callous behaviour. She wanted to make him say it. She needed to have him say it.

But he couldn’t. The bastard.

“Shit,” he cursed and set his eyes to staring at the painting just to the left of her head. The coward couldn’t even look her in the eye. “There’s something I need to tell you. I think you know what it is, but I need to say it anyway.”

Making her face impassive, she nodded, “Okay.”

“You remember the cup, the storm and that vision of you?

“Yes, it was rather memorable.”

He ran a nervous hand through his hair. “Right. I tried to kill myself because of what you said.”

“Because of what _she_ said,” Hermione corrected.

“Well, she was you, so it’s what you said. Look, Hermione, I—I care what you think of me,” he said slowly, still not watching her face as he spoke. “I care about you.”

“I care about you, too,” she said. It was true. He was still a good man. Could she really hold it against him for not falling in love with his fake wife? Logically, she knew he was not at fault here. She was the one who misinterpreted his seemingly-affectionate actions. He was doing his job, playing his part. She was the one who saw more than was really there.

“No, I mean that I –“

“It’s time to go!” James shouted as he strode into the frame of a painting in the bedroom. “The train will not wait just because you need to comb your hair one last time. Remember what happened sixth year?”

Sirius cursed violently and glared at the portrait of his friend.

“It’s fine, Sirius,” Hermione soothed. “You can tell me later.”

He shook his head and stomped from the room.

“Fuck. I think I just screwed up big time,” James groaned and ran from the frame, shouting apologies to his friend and leaving Hermione to frown her annoyance at the empty room.

“This is all extremely inconvenient,” she muttered, taking hold of her trunk and pulling it down the stairs. Sirius was cursing colourfully at his painted friend, not bothering to censor himself for anyone, even Harry.

“Are we ready to go?” Hermione asked loudly, drawing another curse from the man.

“Yes,” Remus said for him, then turned to his friend. “Sirius, you can save the rest of your choice words for later. James isn’t going anywhere, your wife is.”

“Right,” Sirius sent one last hard glare at his friend, who flinched and ran from his frame.

“Sorry!” he cried as she ran past her and disappeared into the landscape painting in the sitting room. It would take Sirius hours to find James hidden in that wilderness.

Before she could question precisely what it was Sirius was angry about or what James had done other than interrupting his friend’s awkward attempt at saying goodbye, Sirius had taken hold of her arm and pulled her from the house. Tonks and Kingsley were waiting on the doorstep to accompany them to the train station.

“Wotcher,” Tonks smiled, her face flushed from the winter cold and the thrill of seeing Remus again. Her heart warmed at the sight of her friend looking so happy. Hermione was glad that she and Remus were happy if no one else was. The woman took her trunk and Disapparated with it, sliding from the pavement as if she had never been there at all. Kingsley followed with Harry’s trunk, then Remus, who transported Harry along with him. Each one offered a silent thumbs-up before departing, their eyes locked on to Sirius.

They all knew.

Alone again, Sirius looked as if he wanted to make yet another attempt at saying something meaningful to her. It went about as well as any of his other tries and he finally just cursed and Disapparated, his fingers gripping Hermione’s, digging into her gloved hand and not loosening even after they arrive outside King’s Cross. He looked to her again, shook his head slowly and started walking toward the entrance.

Harry and Remus were waiting, watching the crowd.

Sirius kept his free hand wrapped tightly around his wand as his eyes darted across every face and any sudden movements. The silvery orbs focused on a pair of lanky gingers who walked purposefully through pedestrian traffic toward them.

“You were supposed to be inside,” the man said sharply.

“Calm down there, Black,” Fred replied, offering him a slap on the back, which would have been friendly and playful where it not delivered with so much force.

 “Told you,” George said. “I told him, but would he listen to me?”

“Shut up,” Fred snapped, uncharacteristically harsh with his twin. He turned his eyes to Hermione, his face contorting in something strangely close to a leer. It was a face neither Fred nor George would ever have made at her. Come to think of it, there had not been a single instance since July where Fred had not spent the first three minutes of any given conversation apologising for not being the one to marry her.

She cleared her throat to better control her voice, forcing herself to sound light and carefree. “Where’s Nymphadora?”

Fred smiled that leer of a smile again. “She went on ahead. You know Nymphadora, always running off.”

Hermione could feel Sirius tense as Fred used the woman’s given name. The ginger might as well have thrown a Dark Mark above his head, the error was so glaringly obvious. Remus and Sirius tightened the grip on their wands and stepped closer to their charges.

“Who are you?” Remus demanded.

“Oh, got yourself another champion now?” Fred asked her, ignoring Lupin entirely. “Someone else you’re going to owe a favour to? You still owe me a reward for my efforts, you know.”

“Reward?” she repeated, trying to remember who she owed anything to other than Sirius for saving her. Fred grinned again, a lopsided grin, a lumpy grin, and she remembered. “Carrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit that I have a deep and lasting hatred of the stupid character who listens at doorways, running from a painful eavesdropped conversation before s/he heard everything and then misunderstanding what was heard. It's a device I absolutely loath in print and on screen. So naturally I'd find myself using a variation of it. In fairness, Hermione did heard the entirety of the conversation... it just happens to be a small portion of an ongoing debate between Sirius and Portrait James.


	36. The Ties That Bind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a vow is kept.

The lumpy leer only spread further across Fred's face, looking even more unnatural and disturbing than when she had seen it on Carrow himself. Fred was meant to smile broadly, like he was up to no good but wanted to distract you from that fact with a toothy grin. Whenever he smiled at a girl, it was done in that same toothy way, letting her know that he was indeed up to no good and would happily get up to it with her. He had never leered at anyone, especially not at Hermione.

"Well, now you've done it, brother," George sighed, drawing his wand and training it on them. "This was supposed to be easy."

"Easy is no fun," Fred commented, licking his lips eagerly.

"But the Dark Lord gave orders," George hissed. "We must obey them."

Carrow sighed, clearly put out at having his 'fun' disrupted by anyone, even Lord Voldemort. "Fine."

Sirius took advantage of the pair's conversation to step sideways, putting himself fully between false Weasleys and Hermione. Safe behind the shield he made for her, she could see Harry guarded by Remus; the man's eyes were darting wildly from Carrow and his companion to the crowd and back again, searching with a rapidity that verged on panic.

"What happened to the others?" Remus demanded, voice harder than she had ever heard it. He sounded positively lethal, more frightening than before the full moon, and she knew precisely why. 'The others' was not Kingsley, Fred or George. 'The others' was Tonks and no one else.

The imposters did not know or care what Remus meant. George smiled, though it was more like a disturbing contortion of the mouth than anything either of the twins would ever make. "Thought they were so funny, they did. The ginger blood traitors laughed when we showed up at their door."

"They aren't laughing now," Carrow said.

"What did you do to them?" Remus shouted. Hermione knew his thoughts rested solely with Tonks, despite the anger he was showing at the prospect of the two pranksters being dead.

This was bad. She had dealt with Death Eaters in the past. At the Ministry in June, they had a purpose: To get the prophecy from Harry. Any damage they did then was simply collateral, unintended, accidental, a means to an end. Today, here, in the crowded Muggle side of King's Cross, any harm would be fully intentional and more gruesome than anything they might have inflicted in summer. This needed to end quickly, before anyone got hurt.

"Get us out of here," she whispered and gripping her wand and Sirius's jacket with equal strength. "We can contact Dumbledore from home."

"I can't," he ground out. "I've tried."

"Anti-Disapparition charms," George said sweetly. "You can get in, but you'll never get out." He, whoever he really was, gave that horrid grin and began walking around them, slowly, casually, as if they posed absolutely no threat.

What were they waiting for?

By what logic she dared apply to the Death Eaters, they had what they wanted. Harry, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, was there within their grasp. Obtaining him was still Voldemort's main goal. The Bloody Law might have been intended to ensnare her, but that had simply been a new way to get to Harry.

So what were they waiting for?

"The Mudblood looks nervous," George observed blandly. No doubt he participated in the numerous Muggle Hunts that had gone on before Voldemort grew so intent on Hermione Granger.

Carrow sneered with Fred's mouth. "As well she should. The Dark Lord wants to make an example of you. How long did you think he would let you disobey him? He would have happily killed you if you came to him properly in September, but now…" He breathed in slowly as if contemplating just what agonies Voldemort would visit on her after so many months of wilful defiance. "Now, you will beg for death, Mudblood."

"Enough, Carrow," a silky voice reprimanded.

The words had been spoken gently but Carrow and the Death Eater masquerading as George both flinched at the sound as if they had been slapped. Hermione knew that they would only react that way to one thing: Voldemort.

The dark wizard slid from the air as if he had been there all along, Apparating into being without so much as a whisper announcing his arrival. The twins fell onto one knee, prostrating themselves. Their audience, by contrast, turned into a herd of panicked animals at the sight; the witches and wizards who knew of him screamed and ran; the Muggles could only guess at what he might be and attempted the same response. It was bedlam, and the Death Eaters were having none of it. Spells began to fly, so many streaks of green – Killing Curses – flashed across the tumult that the whole of King's Cross looked as if it had been painted that sickening shade.

"Enough," Voldemort called, reigning in his overzealous followers with a single word.

He turned his inhuman eyes to the tiny cluster of resistance, something like a pleasant smile on his pale, reptilian face. It sent a chill of fear and revulsion down her spine. "Forgive me, I grew impatient," he said conversationally. "Understandable, wouldn't you say?"

"Why are you here?" Remus demanded, not taking up the Dark wizard's pleasant tone.

"To show that Lord Voldemort is merciful."

"By allowing your minions to murder innocent people?" Remus spat, his voice wavering ever so slightly over the word 'murder' as he, doubtless, imagined the woman he loved being killed by Carrow and his companion.

The Dark Lord replied with an elegant shrug. "They are Muggles; hardly people by any stretch of the imagination. It is magical blood that I care about, and I will not allow it to be wasted."

"Who is the one spilling it?" Harry shouted from behind his human shield. "YOU!"

"Ah, Harry Potter, I am so pleased you are here," Voldemort smiled like a kindly uncle. He circled around the boy and his protector, looking rather like a vulture just waiting for its prey to die. His hands, ghastly white and empty, gestured as he spoke; his words were menacing enough in meaning that he needed no wand to reinforce them. "You alone can end this battle. No one else need die in this struggle. Come before me, face me yourself and I will end all violence against those who would harbour you."

"You're insane!" Sirius called. "We'll never let him near you!"

The Dark wizard's smile grew fierce. "Then I will allow my followers to punish every man, woman and child who had the misfortune to bear witness to Potter's cowardice. Everyone who has ever aided him will be killed. Anyone who has ever set eyes on him will cease to be. He will die as he should have those fifteen years ago, all memory of his life erased. It will be as if Harry Potter never was.

"Come, Harry Potter."

When he didn't step forward immediately, Voldemort removed the wand from his robes and pointed it at the crowd, training it on a Muggle without bothering to look who he would kill in Harry's place. "I am waiting, Potter."

In the time it took Hermione's heart to beat just once, Harry shoved off Remus's hands and protests, ran the short distance to stand between Voldemort and the woman he had picked at random. He didn't know her, at least Hermione didn't think he did. The Muggle woman was not thanking him or telling him to run back behind his friends; she was standing, dumbfounded and frightened at the horrific man who had pointed the glowing stick at her. To a Muggle this must look like madness. To a witch like Hermione, it looked worse.

"I knew you would come," Voldemort said softly. "The Boy Who Lived."

His lips moved, forming the two words Hermione feared most, and vibrant green light flashed from the tip of his wand.

Her cry of dismay was lost in the shared horror that followed the boy sacrificing himself for so many. She tried to run to him, but Sirius held her back. She could only watch as his body crumpled. Her entire focus was on him, Harry, as he fell, on watching his knees buckle, his body twist and tumble as it dropped until Remus ran forward to stop him hitting the floor. She was so intent on her friend, she barely distinguished the sound of the Death Eaters' panic from her own, but the shrill wail that she later realised emanated from Bellatrix Lestrange broke through her daze. She looked past Harry and saw another figure had fallen, though no one had run forward to catch Voldemort; the man lay in a heap on the cold tiles of the railway station.

'Let him stays there,' she thought and raced with Sirius to join Remus at Harry's side.

"Please tell me he's not dead," she begged. "Please, please."

"Why would he be so stupid?" Sirius growled. "He didn't even have his wand out."

"Because he is a brilliant boy."

Hermione's head shot up to see the addition to their grief.

Dumbledore looked reverently down at the body of her friend. "He really is quite clever. Brave beyond sense, but still clever."

"He  _was_  brilliant and clever and brave. He's nothing now," she corrected him bitterly. She wanted to spit at him, claw at him and demand to know where he had been just moments earlier. Where had he been when Harry was being killed? What good were all those memories and special lessons he spent hours reviewing with Harry? He ought to have been teaching spells and wards. He had gone through so much trouble to protect her from Voldemort, why had he done nothing for Harry?

His eye held an audacious twinkle as he looked down at her. "Are you quite sure about that?"

"Yes, I'm sure!" she yelled, irritated that he would question her intelligence over something as devastating as the tense she used to discuss her recently-murdered friend. "It was a Killing Curse! I doubt he could live through that twice!"

Remus laughed, more a shocked breath than anything else, but it sounded enough like a laugh to have Hermione's head snap around to stare at him. He looked ecstatic, his face beaming with a smile so bright he looked crazed. "He has."

"You're joking," Sirius said, frown creasing his brow as he reached down, his fingers replacing Lupin's on Harry's neck, pressing into the boy's skin to feel the pulse that could not possibly still exist. A moment passed, just enough for a single heartbeat, and he, too, was smiling.

"Brilliant boy," Dumbledore said again.

No one contradicted him.

"That tickles," complained the brilliant, clever, senselessly brave boy, swatting at Sirius's hands as he opened his eyes groggily.

No one spoke as he sat up. No one dared breathe as his hands felt across his chest and stomach, searching for some indication of damage. The boy looked to Dumbledore. "Did it work?"

"Did what work?" Sirius demanded. "Did your plan succeed in giving me a fucking heart attack? Why, yes, it did. Great job, ya knob."

"Sirius," Dumbledore chided gently, "Harry has played his part perfectly. I trust the Horcrux has been destroyed."

Harry nodded. "I left it back in that misty, white place with Regulus."

"Wait," Sirius interrupted. "Regulus?  _My_  Regulus?"

Harry nodded as he turned to Dumbledore, "Professor, was that all in my head or is that what death is really like?"

"Having never died myself, I could not say for certain," Dumbledore replied sagely, pausing as the delighted light burst in his eyes. "But for the moment, let us focus on the here and not the hereafter. There is but one Horcrux remaining. Remus, if you would be so good as to destroy it for us. Sirius, your work is as it has been since September."

Sirius nodded and stood, pulling Hermione up with him.

She wanted to protest, to demand answers of Harry and the Headmaster. There was so much happening that she had not known about, vital secrets that were only now being revealed after it was too late. She had known about the Horcruxes the Order were systematically destroying, but no one had said anything about Harry having one. Surely that was information that should have been shared immediately to them all. She wanted to objection, but she couldn't. Awareness was returning to her of the dangers nearby. The Death Eaters, those who had not fled when Voldemort fell, were gathered around their master, nervously watching him regain consciousness. Sirius saw them, too. Saw one above all others. The round little man with a rat face and a hand made from silvery magic.

"Wormtail," he said, his voice a harsh growl.

"S-Sirius," the man squeaked, as ratlike in sound as he was in appearance. "Fine w-wife you've got yourself. N-not quite your type as I recall. All legs."

Sirius had his wand drawn, ready to silence Pettigrew permanently. Hermione could not understand why the man was standing in the open as he was, as if he were just begging to be killed. She had seen the way Sirius and Remus reacted to him in the Shrieking Shack, knew their murderous contempt for the man. It was all wrong. Pettigrew was a coward, but he wasn't stupid; he had to know that it was suicide to face Sirius head on, but that's just what he was doing. He was not the sort to stand and fight, he worked subtly with deceit and subterfuge to make up for his lack of strength and skill.

Deceit. She tore her eyes off the hated Animagus, searching the chaos that whirled around them, and saw it, the green glow of a wand just outside her husband's vision.

"Sirius!" she shouted and tried to shove him out of the way, but he was too strong and too intent on Wormtail to be moved. Her counterspell came too late. Pain stabbed her hard in the chest, the ache resonating in her torso. It felt as if her heart had stopped beating, though she could still feel it pounding its panicked drumbeat.

The pain spiked again when saw Sirius swaying on his feet, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed.

Desperately she held tight to him, her knuckles going white as she twisted her fingers into the leather of his jacket, trying to keep him standing, as if that was the only requirement for life, but his weight proved too much. He slipped from her fingers. As he fell, her rings, spellbound and impossible to remove, slipped easily over her knuckle and drop to the ground with him.

‘Till death do you part.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done all I can, but still feel as if this chapter could have been better. I think it's how quickly Harry wakes from death. In the books it seems to take forever because it's from Harry's perspective, but from the outside it can't have taken very long between the curse and him waking. Agree? Disagree?


	37. Bloody Miracle

Hermione stood motionless as the battle began, hexes and charms flying so near to her that her hair blew in their wake. Spells so advanced and obscure she could spend the rest of her life researching their inventors, origins and purposes and still not have touched on all being thrown.  A colossal snake of fire reared to the domed glass ceiling, swallowing the jet of iridescent flames Dumbledore had sent across the concourse of the train station, spitting caustic venom at the great white wizard, but succeeding only in dissolving the tiles of the floor instead; Hermione stepped sideways to avoid falling into the chasm, but that was all the notice she bothered to take of so amazing a convergence of magic. She paid no more attention to the duel between the two greatest wizards of the age than she would to a fly bothering her while she tried to revise her Transfiguration notes.

How could she be bothered when she had something far more important to observe: Sirius.

Hermione stared down at him. His skin still so soft and full of colour, it looked as if he had fallen asleep with his eyes open. He looked perfectly peaceful, every fold and crease smoothed with the loss of worry and anger, just as he did when he slept. She had noticed, like all those odd titbits she found herself squirreling away without consciously doing so, that even on those nights he felt haunted by memories of what he had lost or what he had been subjected to, when he came to their bed, all those fears and worries melted from him as if she had been his peace, her arms comforting him and keeping him safe.

As she studied those arms now, her eyes came to her left hand and the naked fingers. Her heart ached to see it bare, the ostentatious rings that she so hated now gone, lost in the chaos of King’s Cross, and the barest of indentations marking that they had once had a home and meaning on her finger. Seeing that they had fallen, Hermione could not fool herself into believing Sirius was merely sleeping. Those rings were bound with fidelity charms to only remove with her spouse’s death. She wished she could have saved the rings, her studies of blood magic told her how valuable a person’s blood was, even after death.

Death.

Sirius’s death.

She looked to him again, blinking as a spell shot near enough to graze her arm.

“That hurt,” she muttered dully.

‘Sirius will never feel pain again,’ she thought and her knees gave out. 

He had known a lot of pain; his life had not been a happy one, mad family, lost friends, distrust, deceit. That was all at an end now. His struggles were over and he would join his brother in the misty, white afterlife Harry had mentioned when he woke from his second death. That’s where Sirius would be now. That’s were Sirius would be happy, where he would be free.

That’s what she had wanted for him: happiness and freedom. She should be pleased that he was released, that he would move on.

She should be, but she wasn’t.

“You stupid git!” She slapped him, her hand stinging from the force of the blow.

Her fingers tore at his clothes, ripping open his robes and growing more frantic as she sent the buttons of his burgundy waistcoat and his horribly mismatched paisley shirt flying into the riot of Muggles in her desperation to reach his chest. Hands clasped, she pushed with all her strength, forcing his heart to pump, manually circulating the blood through his veins. Muggles survived heart failure all the time with this seemingly simple effort. Granted no one had ever explained what it was about the Unforgivable that killed a person, but so long as the blood kept pumping there was hope.

Even as her muscles burned from the action, her brain was fighting against her efforts, callously reminding her that no one in the combined recorded histories of Muggle or Wizarding medicine had ever been said to have been revived from CPR after being struck by the Killing Curse. Her mind began to pull factoids from medical journals and CPR training leaflets, informing her that brain cells began dying after only four minutes without oxygen and that she had no watch; she couldn’t know how many minutes had passed since the spell had been cast, how many minutes she stood by gawking idly before finally acting.

Besides, they had depleted their store of miracles for a lifetime. Harry had already survived the curse today and again so many years before. Once was enough. Twice would be a miracle. Two people could not be so impossibly blessed.

‘But Sirius is blessed,’ she insisted, and she knew it was truth. He was not saintly by any stretch of the imagination, but Sirius was blessed. How many men got a second chance at life as he had? How many men survived so vicious an upbringing with a mind entirely his own? Found friends as dedicated and loyal? Only Sirius.

So those interlaced fingers still pushed bruises into his sternum despite what cold logic told her.

As she fought to bring Sirius back to life by shear stubbornness, Hermione caught a word that finally drew her attention to the fighting wizards.

Dumbledore said her name.

“—focused on brining Miss Granger under your control, you have failed to notice the rent pieces of your soul being destroyed. Your diary is gone. As is your ring and your locket, your cup and the piece of yourself left in Harry, and,” the man gestured to his left where Remus stood over the massive corpse of Nagini, Voldemort’s familiar, “your snake. You are all alone now, Tom. Nothing can save you from death except yourself.”

“Horcruxes are easily made,” the Dark Lord said dismissively. 

“Your soul cannot possibly withstand another attempt, Tom,” the man shook his head.

Even with only half an ear given to the conversation, Hermione could glean enough information to form a long-delayed resentment. She had been lied to. The Horcruxes and the Order business, which she had learned about only a few days ago, they had been Dumbledore’s greatest goal for months. In all likelihood, they had been his goal for longer than that given the mention of Tom’s diary. To find all those vital pieces of Voldemort’s soul had to have been an intensive, protracted search. That sort of quest would have gained the attention of at least one Death Eater or Dark Lord had they not been looking elsewhere, had they not been looking at her. For months, the Order had been using her as a decoy to distract the most dangerous wizard in the world while they hunted down his Horcruxes.

She flushed with rage at this new understanding. She was the brightest witch of her age, dammit, someone Voldemort had spent incalculable resources and time to obtain. She was not some wooden duck designed to lure him in. And Sirius knew about it.

 “Bastard,” she growled. “Keeping secrets from me!” Anger coursed through her, the magic in her veins sparking violently, shooting through her fingertips into Sirius’s chest.

Determined to bring him back from the dead just so that she could kill him herself, she forced his lips open and breathed into his mouth. His lifeless lips pressed against hers, taking her breath and mouth for himself. Lifeless fingers moved to tangle themselves in her hair and the still heart thumped hard against her chest. 

It was her imagination. Wishful thinking. Delusions brought on by the trauma of the day and possibly a concussion when she was collateral damage to a stray spell. How else was she to explain her very dead husband kissing her? She had not really thought her attempts to revive him would work, but she had to try. This had to be her strained mind using all their time together to fill in the holes where Sirius ought to be, setting his warm lips against hers in place of the cold, dead things she had breathed past, moving his fingers against her skin in a small, circular rhythm completely at odds yet perfectly harmonizing to the movements of his mouth, filling her ears with his ragged breath as he pulled away. That’s what it was, her imagination. Now, after drawing that slow breath, he would speak, saying something wonderful about her as he so often did, that’s what her brain would have him say.

Hermione held her breath as she waited for the complimentary words to come.

“Why do I feel like I’ve been dropped on my head?”

She couldn’t keep the snort back. That was certainly not what Sirius ought to be saying.

“I understand you’re cross, but that’s no reason to knock me on the head when I’m trying to protect you. How many men would take a Killing Curse for you?”

Hermione tried to keep the frown from her face, but it crept into the corners of her mouth and continued to pull down as Sirius spoke. If this were little more than the delusions she thought them to be, then she would never have allowed Sirius to remember the Unforgivable that ended his life. She wanted nothing but happiness for him, and thinking about that gut-wrenching moment would only bring him pain. Despite what she wanted for him, the man kept on about it.

“It was green, that’s the Killing Curse. There’s no other spell like it,” he paused and sat up, bringing Hermione along with him. “Am I wrong? Am I dead? Did you get hit, too?”

His hands set to work examining her for damage, the warm fingertips grazing her cheeks as he pushed her hair back. This was pointless. She wasn’t dead. Or was she? Had she been struck down while administering aid? Was that the reason he was sitting up and speaking? She tore her eyes from him to look for the mist and white walls. It was still King’s Cross. Even battered and embattled, there was no mistaking it. That alone would have sealed her opinion against being dead, and then Sirius found the wound on her arm. She screamed when he prodded it.

“Sorry, pet.” He placed an apologetic kiss on her cheek before tearing at the hole in her sleeve and revealing the ugly gash still dripping blood down her arm. It was ghastly and painful. How had she not noticed it before? She could barely breathe, it was so excruciating.

Sirius took the wand from her pocket, his own had fallen when he did. “So, any thoughts on why I might still be breathing?” His voice was casual, holding no hint of the chaos that must be waging inside his own head. “I’m not complaining, but it is rather odd.”

“Odd,” she agreed, but offered no explanation as she had none.

“I mean,” he continued as his spell began to mend the gash in her arm, “there’s not much precedence for this sort of thing, is there? Harry, obviously, but last I checked no one had died protecting me recently, so there’s really no cause for my being not dead right now.”

As he continued, Hermione’s frown etched deeper into her forehead and mouth. Everything he said was true and just offered further evidence that his being alive was absolutely beyond possibility. The only reason Harry lived as an infant was because of the sacrifice his mother had made, but she still did not understand how Harry had lived today. It was not still the mother’s sacrifice; Voldemort had seen to it that the power no longer protected Harry when he took the boy’s blood.

“Blood.”

“Yes, loads of it,” Sirius agreed. “It’s a wonder you’re still standing when you’ve lost that much.”

“No,” Hermione said, launching to her feet, immediately feeling the effects of all her blood-loss. “No, not mine. Yours.”

“I’m not bleeding.”

“Not now, no, but you did. You gave blood for the diamond on my engagement ring. What did the Goblins do to make that stone?”

The man shrugged. “Damned if I know. The Goblins would never reveal their secrets to a wizard.”

Hermione pressed on through the dizziness that was trying to claim her. “They had to do something for it to forge a magical link that you felt clear across the country.”

“You think that link can stretch into the afterlife?”

“Why not? Blood magic is strong, some of the strongest magic known to exist,” she insisted, swaying on her feet but batting away his offer of help. “I’m right. We’ll ask Dumbledore.”

“I think he’s a bit busy at the moment,” Sirius muttered, finally taking notice of the battle still being waged by the two great wizards. It was easy to see they had been at it for some time. There was little left of the concourse where they fought; the glass ceiling was shattered, Victorian metal melted and scorched, brick pillars crumbling. There was little of the structure left, but still the two men fought.

“Give up, Dumbledore. You will not kill me,” Voldemort laughed, sending a particularly vile spell that thankfully managed to hit no one. 

“I have no intention of killing you, Tom,” Dumbledore said. “I only wish for you to finally understand.”

“Understand what?” the Dark Lord demanded.

“That there is magic greater than either of ours in this world.”

“Let me guess,” he said, raising his hands in a mocking prayer, “ _Love_.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore agreed and took advantage of Voldemort’s momentary distraction. With a long swish and sharp jab of his wand, he sent a spell that engulfed the dark wizard in a whirlwind of magic that made him scream and spasm. “Love can hurt if you are incapable of understanding it.”

Hermione flinched at the wail of agony escaping the man so many feared. Had love really done that to him? She had always thought it a source of strength, not a weapon. It seemed hard to believe that the feeling that warmed her heart at the thought of her family and friends, spurred her on in times of desperation and danger, gave her hope when she was in need might be used in such a way. To a man so lost to humanity as Voldemort, however, perhaps that warmth burned like a poison. Or perhaps there was more to love than she would ever understand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As if I would really kill Sirius... doesn't mean his torment is over, though. Need I remind you that mind is a villainous authorship and that, prior to my MCU Ice Bear series, I was content only to write the drama of forming relationships and not established ones? Rainbows and kittens, not my thing. Angst. Angst is where it's at. You have been forewarned (as if the previous 37 chapters weren't warning enough). 


	38. Seventy-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which misunderstanding compounds misunderstanding.

Seventy-two.

Hermione stared at the number (72), wishing it to change ( _72_ ) but knowing it would only grow larger as time passed. That number ( **72** ) would never get smaller. Death could not be undone. At least not on so large a scale. That many people could not possibly be under the protection of blood magic as Sirius and Harry were.

The Grangers had never been religious-minded. All things had a rational explanation. Magic had been hard enough to accept, but that it might be used to raise the dead was a topic wholly outside their sphere of understanding. Hermione had not mentioned to either Philip or Martha what truly happened at the train station; she kept that locked away along with all the other secrets she withheld for their protection. She never mentioned it, but she sent a silent prayer of thanks out to the universe, the gods, ancestors, spirits, everything and anything that might have had a hand in keeping those close to her alive and relatively unscathed.

The thought of walking to the church so sporadically attended during childhood had occurred to her, but she did not care to cross paths with Vicar Martin. No, organization and ritual did not a truth make, so Hermione kept to her own private rites, offering thanks every time her father raised the newspaper and the death toll grew larger as more bodies were pulled from the rubble or another Muggle died of crush injuries in hospital, every time a friend or Sirius crossed her mind.

As the week stretched on, she found an hour rarely passed without silent thanks entering her mind, generally with a thought of Sirius.

Her husband had been characteristically silent during her stay in Oxfordshire. He sent her no letters and made no effort to contact her via Floo Network. It was normal for them. They rarely spoke unless together face-to-face. Still part of her ached not knowing how he was coping with his return from death, at not being able to offer him comfort and succour. She had tried to stay angry at him for keeping secrets, but after that initial spark of rage it had passed into understanding.

"He's fine," she assured herself. "The others are there for him."

Despite her own reassurances, the ached persisted.

"Mum, Dad," Hermione said, her voice barely audible over the sound of her parent's chatter. "I love you. You know that right?"

Martha set her fork down and looked worriedly across the table at her. "Of course, Mimi," she said with a worried smile. "Is this about that husband of yours?"

"Yes, actually."

Her mother nodded her understanding. "I thought this was coming. If you choose to get a divorce, we won't think any less of you."

"What? No, I wanted to let you know I was going to go back to our house tomorrow." It was a struggle to keep her tone even and calm given the heavy weight of annoyance she was feeling toward her mother, but she did not want a fight to colour the last visit she may have with her parents until summer.

Philip, thankfully, stepped in before that happened. "Thought it was about time you stopped hiding here. You have another row with Sirius?"

"No, nothing like that. I just wanted to make sure you knew I was all right after that horrible gas explosion at King's Cross." She turned her eyes away so he wouldn't see the lie in them; they both believed the story conjured by the Aurors and experts called in by the Ministry of Magic; she did not want to undo all their work modifying memories and CCTV footage, not to mention all the effort she had put into keeping her parents blissfully unaware of the dangers of her other life.

"We know you're safe. We know you love us," her father assured her with a smile. "Now go tell Sirius the same. And remind him football club is Sunday."

Football. She wanted to laugh. Given all that she feared, her father was still concerned with the mundane work-a-day bits of life. It made her heart glad to know that such trivial things, such  _human_  things, were still so vitally important, that the seventy-two lives lost were not lost for nothing. They died so that others might continue with their quiet lives in joy and peace and football.

Diner was finished in a relaxed and companionable silence, followed by a pudding of equal comfort. Hermione could easily have stayed, but knew that her father was right. She had stayed away long enough.

"I'll come Sunday," she assured her parents, offering each a hug. "I promised a friend to take photos of Sirius embarrassing himself at football."

Martha laughed, but her husband sputtered indignantly. "Nonsense! A strapping lad like that, he'll be brilliant."

Hermione was certain he was wrong. Sirius might be very good at many things, but very much doubted he could pick up the nuances of a sport so unlike anything in the Wizarding world. She kept her peace and stepped into the green flames of their sitting room fire. The world spun and whirled and she swore she saw countless celebrations flash past before she finally landed in the sooty hearth of her husband's house.

"Thought the mud blood had left the master. Kreacher is ever so disappointed to see her again," the decrepit house elf grunted to himself as he cleared away the remnants of dinner.

"Hello, Kreacher. Are you well?" she said, pretending she hadn't heard his insults.

"Overworked as ever, Mistress," the elf said with a bow.

"Oh, I am sorry. I'll have a word with Sirius about that. Where is he?"

He grunted in what might have been an appreciative fashion before gesturing to the door. "Master Black – bane of his mother's existence – has been spending his evenings drunk in the library."

Drunk in the library? Hermione didn't like the sound of that. It was too much like his nightly expeditions to the Three Broomsticks, where he would make himself so sick with firewhiskey he was incapable of finding his own way home. Perhaps she should not have spent the last three days at her parents' house but here with Sirius. If Kreacher was being accurate, then the man was not coping at all well with his return from the grave.

"Thank you," she said hurriedly and all but ran to the library.

She did not hesitate at the door but pushed it wide, mouth falling as she took in Sirius hanging off the side of a wingback chair. His own mouth was gaping, spit pooling in the corner and starting a slow path across his cheek toward his left ear.

"Charming," she muttered.

All her efforts to set him right in the chair proved absolutely pointless, for his weight seemed to have doubled in unconsciousness. She would have thought he would wake when she pushed and prodded him, or when the spittle finally made it into his ear, but all his did was grumble and grunt in his sleep.

"Well, just stay there, then," she said and stomped away, certain a hangover and wickedly sore neck would prove education enough for him come morning.

"Ah, Hermione!" Remus smiled and moved to give the young woman a hug, but stopped short when he saw the state of her jumper. "Been to see Sirius, I see."

"Has he been like that every night since King's Cross?"

"I'm afraid so," the man said. His face contorted in the way often did when he wanted to say more but felt he couldn't. She really had no desire for him to elaborate on what drunken exploits her husband had gotten up to over the past eight nights, so she pretended not to notice. "He'll likely be better now you're here."

"I wasn't away all that long."

"Three days, three years, doesn't make much difference to Sirius," he said, his pale eyes blazing with a subtext Hermione flatly refused to decipher. "I'm glad you're back."

"Hm," she said, watching him ascend the stairs, completely annoyed that he was more attuned to Sirius and his mood swings than she was.

With a hard shake of her head, she made her way up the stairs. All she wanted was to fall into bed and wake up back in the world she loved. Now that Voldemort was defeated, the fear that had so tainted it could be washed away like so much dirt and blood. She smiled to think she had played a part in the end of the darkest wizard ever known; if she had not been such a distraction for the Dark Lord and his followers, the Order of the Phoenix would not have been able to hunt down the broken pieces of his soul. She may only have been a decoy, but she had been important. Why else would Voldemort have gone through all the trouble of creating the Bloody Law? Why else—

All thought ceased as she stepped into the bedroom. If she didn't know better, she would swear there had been brawl. The mirror was shattered over the bureau, the drawers of which hung open, their contents scattered across the floor. The bed curtains were half torn down, the bedclothes laying more off than on the mattress. She knew it had not been an enemy attack because, last she checked, Death Eaters did not leave empty liquor bottles littering the rooms of their victims. So, it seemed Sirius had not been drinking exclusively in the library.

What was his bloody problem? She knew she'd be awake half the night trying to sort it out.

'So much for a lovely night's rest in my bed,' she thought before turning and stomping down the corridor to her old room. She hated that lumpy little bed, the strange stains on the ceiling and disquieting breathing that came from just outside the frame of the picture that hung on the windowless wall. How dare Sirius do that to their room? Wasn't it hers just as much as it was his? He had been the one to insist she sleep there, and now he was making it unliveable! The git. Her anger dropped off the moment she opened the door and saw the shabby little room.

It was neat and as clean as anyone would ever manage to make it. The two beds made up in crisp white linens with a thick quilt folded at the foot of each bed. The single, wide bureau stood where it belonged against the far wall, surface stained but polished and all its drawers in place. No, it was not the room. It was the bed, or rather what lay beneath it, that had her knuckles turning white as she gripped the doorknob.

A school trunk was tucked neatly under the bed she had once called hers.

She knew the trunk was hers. It had her name written on it. Tears stung at her eyes as she stared at the precise white letters spelling out her maiden name. That trunk should have been brought up and set in the closet in Sirius's room, in  _their_  room, but instead it had been shoved beneath the narrow bed she used to sleep in before they were married. It was a simple gesture, but the meaning was easy enough to grasp. She belonged in here, alone. The rings had fallen from her finger. Their marriage was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised more angst, did I not?


	39. Soldier On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a heart aches.

Sleep evaded her. Whenever she heard the breathing coming from just outside the portrait frame, she shot up in bed, expecting to see someone in her room, expecting to see _Sirius_ in her room. Each time she was disappointed to find the door still closed and no one there.

Rather than fight for unconsciousness, she decided her time could be better spent. She sat up and started thinking about her situation.

“I didn’t mind being married to Sirius,” she sighed.

What she meant and refused to say, was that she not only did she not mind it, she really rather liked it. But the placement of her trunk had not been an accident or oversight. Sirius had intentionally set it apart from himself, leaving her in no doubt that her place was not with him. He had every right to separate himself from her; with his death the magic binding them together had been severed. According to the laws governing Wizarding marriages, they were over – muggle marriages, too, if ‘till death’ really meant anything. Which was all well and good, but it still left her in the dark as to how she was meant to behave.

She refused to look a child, clinging desperately to a toy she could not keep. No, trying to keep hold of Sirius when he was trying to move on would do neither of them any good. So she knew how _not_ to act, but that only went so far.

What did a jilted but wholly accepting adult do? How was she to act when she saw Sirius again?

Slumping down against the pillow, she scowled and tried to think of all the girls she knew who had ever been dumped, for that’s the closest thing she could come to calling her own condition. Ginny always did the leaving in her relationships, so she was no role model. Lavender and Parvati went through a fair few boys since she had known them; Parvati’s lip would go wobbly when you brought up an old boyfriend, but that was the extent of her reaction. Lavender, by contrast, would spend three days wailing and wallowing in her bed but thereafter gave absolutely no indication that the boy had ever meant anything to her. Neither seemed appropriate or particularly adult.

The only adult model she had for how to behave was Tonks. Before Christmas, before Remus finally admitted his true feelings, the woman had been dull and lifeless, but she had carried on. So that’s what Hermione would do, she would carry on.

Soldier on, as her grandfather said.

When a respectable hour came, she rose from her bed and made her way out into the house, head held high and her grandfather’s voice in her head, repeating the words like a mantra. _Soldier on. Soldier on._

The kitchen was bright with light and warmth from the fire. It was also occupied by two Weasleys.

“Hermione, dear,” Molly cried and offered the girl a hug. “Oh, we have been so worried about you!”

“Really, Hermione,” the woman’s husband scolded. “You ought to know better than to leave for so long without word.”

Hermione smiled. “I’m sorry, but I really couldn’t leave. My parents would have known something was wrong if I only came to assure them I was alright and left too quickly.”

“But _three days_?” Molly demanded.

“My grandmother’s birthday was the seventh, I had to stay for that. I’ve missed it the past six years.”

The woman sniffed rather crossly, but could offer no solid argument to counter family obligations. She turned back to the cooker and flipped a pancake with enough force to send the uncooked batter splattering across the pan and her apron.

Hermione joined Arthur at the table. The man shifted his chair closer and leaned in. “Be honest with me, Hermione,” he said, his tone more paternal than her own father ever managed to make his sound. “You’ve been avoiding Sirius, haven’t you?”

“No, I have not. Well, not the entire time,” she admitted, continuing before he could say more. “You be honest with me. How long did you know about the Horcruxes? How long did you let Voldemort try to get his wormy hands on me while you lot ran about the country destroying them? Longer than three days, yes?”

The man looked shamefaced and so much like his youngest son that it was a struggle to maintain her ire. “Quite a bit longer.”

“I’m not cross anymore,” she assured him. “But I do not appreciate being used like that. Someone could have had the decency to tell me – _Sirius_ could have had the decency to tell me.”

“Quite right. Quite right. But, really, Hermione, that’s no reason to leave a man.”

Hermione wanted to tell him it was, in fact, a very good reason. That she had every right to take herself away until she regained her composure and the rage dulled into mild irritation. She had spent the better part of those three days of arguing with herself, using hard logic to sort through the reality of it all and even writing out a pro and con list before she was able to understand and agree with their actions. She still didn’t like it, but she at least could see why they had done it. She wanted to tell Arthur at least part of this, but the door swung open and slammed hard against the wall before she could voice a single word.

“Agreeable as ever, I see,” Molly said with more sarcasm than seemed to fit her round, pleasant face.

“My house, my rules,” Sirius slurred, glaring at her as if daring her to argue. He stumbled to the icebox and threw the door wide with as much violence as he had the door to the kitchen.

“Haven’t you had enough for now?” Arthur questioned. “We’re going to Saint Mungo’s later and were hoping you might be in a state to come with us for a change.”

Hermione eyes darted between the two men, disgusted by what she saw and heard; Sirius was not only drinking himself to sleep at night, but spending his days in the same state. What good was saving him from death if this is what he was doing?

“I’ll do as a damn well please. Not as if I have a w—“ Sirius shouted, spinning around and swaying on his feet when he saw the pair sitting at the table.

“Hermione’s back,” Molly said with such saccharine joy that it was clearly meant to hurt him.

“Nice of you to join us,” he spat.

“Yes, isn’t it just?” Arthur said with an honest smile; he had to be wilfully ignoring the biting sarcasm in Sirius’s words.

“Well, for a little while, at least.” Hermione was surprised her voice didn’t shake. She had tried to sound indifferent, and managed a reasonable approximation of it. “I’ve seen so little of my parents; I forgot how lovely it could be, but it does get old living in the same jumper for three days.”

Her heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice as she spoke the words. It took all her effort to not let the pain show on her face, but, in truth, it was agonising. It was the same crippling pain that had struck her when Sirius faced the Horcurx, that impossibly beautiful woman that was meant to be her. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, assuming it to be a powerful combination of anxiety, fear and magic, but there was little of that now. She could not explain this near-debilitating pain gripping her chest so tightly.

“Uh, will you be joining us at Saint Mungo’s?” Arthur asked hurriedly.

“Yes, I’ve been wondering how Fred and George have been,” she said, turning away from Sirius and feeling the pain increase with the loss of eye contact.

“Oh, those two are—“

The icebox door slammed shut, followed by the kitchen door, interrupting all talk for several moments.

“Has he been like this every day?” Hermione asked, her hand rising to her chest, the heel digging in as if physical pressure might dull the pain.

When Arthur finally replied, he sounded disappointed. “It varies. I had thought seeing you… Never you mind what I thought. How about some pancakes?”

His false brightness carried them through the start of breakfast, though Hermione had little appetite. The mood lifted with the arrival of the two youngest Weasleys, who chattered and argued their way through the meal. Hermione was genuinely happy by the time the plates were being cleared away, but as she laughed at something silly Ginny said, she felt the pain spike in her again.

“You all right?” Ron asked. “Made a face there.”

“Hm? No, fine, just—“ She stopped, not at all sure what to call it. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.  It was the opposite of nothing. It was like she had a shadow, unseen by everyone, stabbing her in the heart every time she breathed, every time she laughed or smiled, every time she looked at someone who made her even a little glad.

Soldier on, her grandfather had said, so that is what she did. She put on a false smile and pretended she felt nothing.

“When are we going to the hospital?” she asked.

“Not for another two hours at least,” Arthur said, checking the clock on the wall. “The nurses change shifts as twelve.”

Hermione frowned her lack of understanding at him, but it was Ginny who answered.

“Mum made a bit of a scene when they were first brought in. She got us kicked out.” The girl fought a smile. “The morning nurses still remember her and won’t let us in. Need to wait for the afternoon shift to start.”

“I did not make a scene,” the woman huffed. “I was tending to my boys!”

Ron snorted, earning a smack from his sister.

“Come on,” the girl said, pulling Hermione from the kitchen all the way to the room they once shared, the room she now slept in alone. With the door securely fastened, she rounded on her. “What is going on?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hermione replied with absolute honesty.

“Sirius. You,” she prompted and waited expectantly, but when no answer came, she asked, “Have you left him?”

“No, I only went away to settle my nerves and make sure my parents knew I was fine. He’s the one shoving my trunk into this room. Rather a cowardly way to end a marriage, I think, and he the one who insisted we be absolutely honest with each other. I knew he was trying to let me down easy before the train ride that morning, but this is really too much.” Hermione was surprised by the unrestricted flow of words. She had been more upset by the end of the marriage than she had realised.

“You are the smartest person I know, Hermione,” Ginny said, “but there are some things you are just absolute rubbish at.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You should talk to Sirius.”

“No, tell me what you mean,” Hermione insisted.

The girl just shook her head. “I will not be the one to sort this out for you.”

“Sort what out? It’s over. He doesn’t want me. Never did. He said so himself on our wedding day, and I quote: ‘I didn’t want to marry you! I didn’t want to marry anyone, ever!’.” The imitation of the tone he had taken when he shouted those words was perfect, though Ginny would never know it. Hermione still remembered his face when he had screamed at her in the kitchen, and no amount of time would dull the pain it brought her. Their marriage had never been real, though he had come close to convincing her otherwise.

“Talk to Sirius,” Ginny said simply and left her standing alone and angry and with a heart that felt as if it were breaking.

“Hearts can’t break,” she muttered. “They’re a muscle; they can only be crushed.” It was pointless trying to talk herself into believing it, because she knew what being broken felt like. She felt broken now.


	40. Football Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which smiles are forced and nothing is resolved.

_Soldier on._

She repeated the two words ad nauseam, repeated them so often they were losing their effectiveness. Ginny was trying to make her a new mantra: _Talk to him_.  It was fine advice, words she would have loved to follow, but there was no talking to him.

She had thought that when he saw her again, relatively sober, that he would explain himself, but he didn’t. As they stood with Remus and the Weasleys in the entrance hall, waiting for Ginny to grab a particular book Fred had asked for, she cleared her throat.

“Um, Sirius,” she said in a quiet but surprisingly steady voice, “I think we need to talk.”

“Nothing to talk about,” he retorted, neither quiet nor steady. He shoved Remus aside and stalked out of the house alone.

“Can’t say I didn’t try,” she muttered to those staring at her.

Remus moved to follow his friend but stopped. “Arthur, would you?”

“It’s fine,” the man said and hurried out the door after the man.

“Where’s dad gone?” Ginny asked when she came down the stairs, book in hand. After a paused and a hard look at Hermione, adding, “Where’s Sirius?”

“I tried to talk to him, like you said,” she replied, angry that this was now her fault. Hermione’s hard expression was a dare for anyone else to try saying something to her. She was fed up with moods and tantrums, fed up with advice and knowing looks, fed up with the bloody ache in her chest. She had half a mind to check herself in to St Mungo’s as they entered, certain there had to be something physically wrong with her, but she followed the Weasley’s through the corridors and into a small, private room with two occupied beds.

Hermione studied the patients for a long moment. Were it not for the trademark flaming hair, she would not have known who they were, their faced were so deeply bruised and their generally impish features lost in swollen lumps.  If this is how horrid they looked days after being admitted to hospital, she was nothing but supportive of Molly for her reaction.

“Hermione, love!” a cheery voice called to her. “I have so missed you! Look, Hermione’s come to visit!”

“You’re only ever that cheerful when you’re trying to distract me. What are you up to?” she asked.

“Nothing,” one protested.

“Perfectly innocent,” insisted his brother.

“Never hurt a fly in my life.”

“Although I did once step on an ant, poor thing.”

“Took him home in a box, and cared for him until he was well enough to rejoin the colony.”

“Oh, stop!” she snorted.

“Worth a try,” he shrugged and slumped down on his pillow.

One of the twins looked at her, and, as his head tilted to the left, she knew he was Fred. The man still put on that sympathetic head tilt every time he looked at her, as if he were about to apologise for not being her husband.

“Hermione,” Fred began, his head tilting even further to the left. “I’m—“

“Oh, shut up about it already!” she snapped. “I didn’t want to marry you!”

“Fine way to treat a bloke in hospital,” he sniffed and crossed his arms over his chest, flinching at the pain it caused him.

“How is that husband of yours?” George asked. His entire forehead moved in what she suspected was meant to be a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows. “Keeping you up till all hours, is he? Would explain your foul mood today.”

“No, he didn’t because he isn’t anymore,” she snapped, holding up her hand to show the lack of wedding and engagement rings.

“Ooh, so I’ve a chance now?” Fred asked with so much eagerness she nearly believed him. “Oh, but wait. You said you didn’t want to marry me. Bugger.”

“Well, if all you’re going to do is make fun of me, I’m leaving,” she glared at them both in what she hoped was a way that might give them nightmares and left to find Tonks.

The way Remus had hesitated at the door that morning, too concerned with making it to the woman’s bedside, made Hermione fearful for her condition. But, it seemed the woman had gotten off light. She appeared completely uninjured.

“Hermione! There you are,” Tonks cried and hopped from her bed to give the younger woman a hug. “How have you been? You haven’t been to see me.”

“I’m sorry, I was in Oxford,” Hermione said, explaining about her parents and grandmother’s birthday and being angry as she had been. “But I’m here now, so how are you feeling?”

“Fine, but they won’t let me leave.” The woman threw herself onto the bed and groaned. “It is so boring here.”

“Why won’t they let you leave? Why won’t they let her leave?” Hermione turned to Remus, who was smiling down at the woman as her hair flashed through four different colours.

“Head trauma can affect a Metamorphmagus a little differently from the average witch,” he explained. “They’re keeping her under observation until they’re certain there’s no lasting damage.”

“Head trauma?” Hermione paled.

“I bumped by head diving behind the information kiosk. I’ve hit it worse before, so I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” she insisted, flushing with embarrassment when Hermione snorted. “What? You dive to escape a hex and see if you pay attention to what you might hit your head on. Honestly.”

“So you really are fine?”

“Yes. Perfectly fine,” Tonks assure her. “Now how about you? You’re not hurt? And not angry with Sirius anymore? How is he? He hasn’t been in to see me either.”

It was Hermione’s turn to scowl. “I wouldn’t know. He refuses to talk to me.”

“Remus—“

“No,” the man said. “I am not getting in the middle.”

“That’s just what Ginny said,” Hermione practically snarled. “Everyone is so keen to tell me what to do, but not one of you is willing to actually help.”

“It’s not our fight, Hermione,” he insisted.

“It’s not a fight!”

“Sounds like one to me,” Tonks shrugged. “You’ll sort it out.”

Hermione scoffed but said no more.

Sirius wasn’t home when they returned from Saint Mungo’s that afternoon. Nor was he at dinner that evening. Hermione considered lying in wait, ready to pounce on him when he came to the library to drink that night, but thought it would not give off the impression of maturity that she was trying to maintain. Instead, she had to go on living each day with the hopes that their paths would simply cross naturally and she would get the chance to talk to him, but they never did. He was home; she knew he was because the others talked about him drinking more than ever or being more belligerent than usual.

If the others saw him, she was forced to conclude that he was deliberately avoiding her.

“Hermione, you have got to fix Sirius,” Harry groaned and threw himself into an empty chair opposite hers.

“I’m starting to think that’s an impossible task,” she muttered, but more loudly said, “I’ve been trying, but he’s hiding from me. I think maybe he’s angry that I saved him.”

“Rubbish,” the boy said.

“It’s the only explanation, Harry. I pulled him from some blissful afterlife with all the people he loved and he resents me for it.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed at her as if he were studying her. “Sometimes, you are not that clever.”

“Not you, too,” she groaned.

“I’m not kidding. You—“ He stopped, his eyes growing nearly as round as the frames of his glasses. “You really don’t know.”

“What? What now?” she demanded, slamming her book down onto the table.

“I—I think I’ll just go… do… something else…” His eyes remained round and locked on her as he stood and stumbled his way from the kitchen.

This was becoming more tiresome than it was worth. She was only at Number 12 so that she could talk to Sirius, which was clearly never going to happen. At least at her parents’ house she would only have to deal with her mother’s ‘I told you so’s instead of this constant nagging to fix the husband she no long had and everyone’s assertions that there was some grand knowledge she was lacking. It was ridiculous, all of it. And, she decided, she would not tolerate it any longer.

She stood and took up her book, stomping out into the hall and directly into someone’s chest.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

The grunt of a reply told her she had finally run into her estranged husband.

“Sirius, I th—what are you wearing?”

“Clothes,” he retorted, curtly.

“I can see that,” she said, forcing the ache away; it hurt all the more now that he was standing before her. “Why are you wearing those particular clothes?” She knew there were much more important things she needed to discuss with him, but she could not keep that question from coming out of her mouth. She had seen the contents of his closet, and knew these clothes were not something he had owned; they looked suspiciously like athletic clothes, if athletic clothes had been described to an expert tailor who had never set foot outside his shop and only knew how to make extremely fine suits. As ever, he looked good, if slightly odd.

“Football club,” he reminded her harshly, like she was stupid to have forgotten. Or just stupid in general.

“You’re actually going through with that?”

“Gentlemen’s agreement.”

“But we aren’t married anymore,” she said. “You don’t have to try to impress my parents.”

“I was never trying to,” he replied, pushing past her with more force than was strictly necessary. “I like your dad. And I promised.”

‘You also promised to love and honour me,’ she thought rather bitterly, but nodded and made sure none of her resentment seeped into her voice when she replied. “I promised my dad I’d come for the game. I’ll take the Floo Network if you’d rather not travel together.”

“Fine,” he all but spat.

She watched him stalk from her presence, terrified how this would play out once they reached Oxford. If he wasn’t willing to put up a front for her parents, then it would be painfully clear that not only the honeymoon but the entire marriage had ended. Her mother would, naturally, be thrilled, but her father genuinely liked Sirius; she so hated to disappoint him by divorcing after only four months.

The look on her father’s face did nothing to ease her concerns; the man looked positively ecstatic that Sirius had kept his word.

“Sirius,” Phillip grinned and shook the man’s hand. “Don’t you just look the part!”

“I do what I can,” Sirius said, sounding not only sober but properly pleasant. “So where’s the pitch?”

“At University Parks,” her father said. “I try to jog there as a bit of a warm up.” The invitation was obvious, and Sirius readily took him up on it, jogging off down the pavement while Hermione was left to find her own way there alone. Git.

It was completely immature, but the only thing that kept Hermione walking to that pitch was the promise of watching Sirius make an absolute fool of himself. Her hopes were dashed rather quickly. The man was a quick study and was soon the best football player Phillip Granger’s Sunday club had ever seen. She glowered as her father and his friends hoisted Sirius onto their shoulders and paraded him before the losing side.

“Git.”

“Now I know what it felt like to be James all those years,” Sirius laughed, shaking off the last of the praise. “I like this game.”

Phillip slapped the younger man on the back. “I think I might have found another way to make some money off poor David Bradshaw.”

“Dad!”

“What? I didn’t hear you complaining when my winnings got you your wedding portraits made,” he defended. “Well, maybe a little complaining.”

“Wedding portraits?” Sirius asked, watching their conversation with interest. “The pictures of my brother, James and Lily?”

Phillip nodded. “I thought that one looked like you,” he said. “Our girl said they were lost friends. I’m sorry.”

Daring to look his way, Hermione was surprised to find Sirius looking back. The pain and anger on his face made the ache in her chest throb harder. It was like the last time they had been in this park, just a few weeks after their marriage had been arranged; he had looked at her just the same way, and all because of a misunderstanding. They had sorted it out by that evening.

Unlike their previous disagreement, this was permanent.


	41. Collateral Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an ending is had.

Hermione could not remember a more awkward meal in her life. Not when her estranged Uncle Alfie came to visit; not when her father’s old girlfriend from university dropped by; not even the dinner where she rather unceremoniously announced her engagement to Sirius. No, this was the hands-down winner of that ignoble prize.

Sirius, to his credit, was playing to perfection his role as good husband and respectful son-in-law, which was what made the whole things so unbearably awkward for her. She had no choice but to follow his lead, to smile when he looked at her, to laugh when he joked and offer none of the scathing remarks she so wanted to direct his way. With each laugh and glance and smile, the ache in her chest grew. She was practically in tears by the time lunch had ended, the pain was so great.

“Hermione,” her mother whispered and hugged her tight, pulling her into the kitchen. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” she lied. “It’s fine. Just the exercise. I think I pulled a muscle.”

“Hermione Jean Granger, don’t you dare lie to me.” Martha seemed to tower over her just as she had when Hermione was a child caught red-handed filching biscuits before dinner. “You can tell me the truth. Your father might be blinded by that man’s smile, but I’m not.”

She really did want to tell her the truth. Instead she shook her head. “It’s not Sirius.”

“Then where are your rings?”

Hermione looked at her hands, saw the ten naked digits. The engagement ring Sirius had commissioned was so ostentatious, it would have been impossible not to notice its absence. She had been foolish to think it would have been overlooked.

“They were missing last week, too. I didn’t say anything because I thought you might have kept them in your trunk so they wouldn’t be damaged on the train, but you’ve been back to that man’s house and to your trunk. They are still gone, Hermione,” the woman said sagely. “I know what it means when a married woman isn’t wearing her rings.”

“I-I sent them off to be cleaned,” Hermione offered weakly.

“Fine, Hermione, if that’s the game you want to play, then deny away. But remember that I am your mother. I love you no matter what happens,” she pulled her daughter into a hug. “So when you choose to tell me that you have separated from that man, I will support you one hundred percent. Especially if you get the house.”

“Mum!” Hermione couldn’t help but laugh.

“What? He clearly has money,” the woman said. “Far be it for me to stand between you and your equal share.”

“Stop it.”

Martha smiled down at her. “There, now that’s the honest smile I’ve been missing.”

“When it’s time, I’ll let you know,” Hermione promised.

“Let her know what?” Philip questioned as he swaggered into the kitchen with his beloved son-in-law. The man wagged a disapproving finger at his daughter. “Are you keeping secrets from your old man?”

“When she lets me know what’s in this parcel that’s been sitting in the kitchen for the better part of the week. You remember, Philip, the parcel you said you would post to her last week?” supplied Martha with a hard look at her husband before answering her daughter’s questioning glance. “A handsome, young police constable delivered it, said it was from that horrible accident at the station.” The woman pushed an envelope into Hermione’s hands and prodded her husband from the room until the young woman was alone in the kitchen with Sirius.

The ache, which she kept thinking could grow no more excruciating, spiked again when he looked at her. She needed to stop this, to do something to make the pain vanish. Watching at him was no help. He was too handsome, even in those ridiculous clothes. Her eyes tried to move from him, but as he pulled at the sweat-soaked neck of his shirt, she saw the blood diamond ring she had given him before Christmas. A new and different ache jointed the first as she considered what it meant that he still wore that ring; that ring that bound him to her with magic; that ring that sent a fire to her blood if another woman touched him or if he was in pain.

Terrified by the thought of what else that ring might have been communicating with her, she tore her eyes from him and looked instead at the envelope. She felt the contents through the thick paper, trying to identify them by shape alone.

“What did I leave at the station?” she wondered and tore it open, adding mentally, ‘Except my marriage?’

Apparently nothing.

Inside the dull manila envelope lay her rings, as shining and ostentatious as they had ever been. They fell heavily into her hand, where she turned them over and studied them. Their loss had changed her entire world.

“I thought you’d gotten rid of them,” Sirius said in a low, astonished voice, like a man rediscovering a lost treasure. “Gotten rid of me.”

“Did you find any notes that read I was leaving you? They fell off, and I couldn’t find them. I looked, but they were gone. I thought someone had stolen them; I guess they had just been buried.” As they stared at one another, she felt the heart-crushing pain in her chest ebb until it was little more than a dull twinge.  

Snapping free of his reverie, Sirius cleared his throat. “They haven’t repealed the Bloody Law yet. Some renegade Death Eater might still try his luck.”

A noncommittal ‘hm’ was all she could manage, too distrusting of her own voice after hearing what sounded like a very strange marriage proposal from the man she was certain, until that moment, wanted nothing more than the dissolution of their union.

“But it doesn’t change anything, finding those,” he informed her hastily. “You’re still free to marry whoever you want.”

“I guess I am,” she agreed, studying the rings and all they symbolised.

Sirius was right about the Bloody Law and about the Death Eaters; she had been keeping up with the Daily Prophet, saw that there were innumerable supporters of the fallen Dark Lord causing trouble throughout the country. One such rabid follower would be more than happy to make an example of her – Harry Potter’s friend and confidant; she would need to remarry and soon. Sirius, it seemed, was willing to take the job on again, but was that what she wanted? So far as husbands went, Sirius was quite possibly one of the better ones. He might not have loved her, but he had treated her well, respected her in all the ways she would wish.

A glance at Sirius left her no less conflicted about what to do; he looked no more disappointed or eager than he had before the rings were returned to her. Had the words been a mere encouragement for her to get out and find someone new? Someone else. Anyone else. Anyone but him.

A moment passed.

Then another as she debated the pros and cons of remaining Hermione Jean Black.

Sirius broke into her thoughts with a chuckle. It was the first laugh she had heard from him in nearly three weeks, but she was certain it was direct at her. He was laughing at her.

She glared at him. “What’s so bloody funny?”

“You,” he admitted with a genuine smile. “I can always tell when you’re making a list in your head. I don’t know if it matters at all, but I have one more item for your ‘pro’ column.”

“Which is what?” she sniffed, annoyed that he had known precisely what was in her thoughts.

“That I love you.”

She blinked at him in disbelief, quite sure she had misheard him. “What?”

“You heard me. Do you think I stepped in front of a Killing Curse because Dumbledore told me to? I did that for you because I love you.  Do you think I would drink myself sick every night because I escaped a marriage I didn’t want to be in? No, I was desperate to get you back, Hermione. Every time I looked at you, it felt like my heart was breaking. Every time I heard you laugh with someone else, saw you smile at someone who wasn’t me, I died inside.”

“That was you?” Her hand flew to her chest, rubbing at the memory of the pain that no longer plagued her.

He held up the hand still carrying the ring she had given him. “I know all the things a ring like this can share,” he admitted. “I kept it on, knowing you would feel everything I felt, hoping it would tell you all the things I was too cowardly to say. I should have said it sooner, Hermione. I love you.”

Her voice failed her as she stared at him.

“And this is the point where you’re meant to tell me you love me, too,” he prompted with a charming grin.

She hesitated, “I… I don’t know.”

Impossibly, his grin grew larger.

“Why are you smiling?” she demanded. “I just said I _don’t_ love you.”

“No, I think you’ll find you said you didn’t know if you loved me.” He took the rings from her fidgeting hands and slid them without pause onto her finger, where they settled back into place as if they had found their home. “Give me a little more time and you’ll love me as much as I do you.”

Her heart was light for the first time since leaving King’s Cross. Regardless, she was annoyed that he had not allowed her to finish her list; she knew the results would have been the same, but she would have liked to make her own decision. “What makes you so confident?”

“I’m Sirius Fucking Black,” he said, his assured smile slipping effortlessly into a smirk.

She waited, expecting him to say more, to offer verifiable proof for his declaration and self-confidence, but no more came.

“Git.”

“Swot,” he smiled. “Brilliant, beautiful swot. I love you. Now kiss me, it’ll annoy that mother of yours.”

She shoved his smiling face away. “Dammit, Sirius, I’m trying to be cross with you!”

“And how is that going?”

“Not well at all, I’m far too happy right now,” she admitted. And it was true. Where the debilitating ache had once threatened to crush her heart muscle, she now felt a warmth flooding her chest more wonderful than any magic she had ever known. Dumbledore had been right, but he usually was. She hadn’t understood how love could have destroyed the darkest wizard ever known, but she had felt the pain of its absence; she knew she would have died if it continued.

She didn’t know if she loved Sirius. However, there were, as Ginny had once said, a lot of different kinds of love, and she would find whichever one was right for her. She would love Sirius one day, probably one day very, very soon.

She smiled as she took his hand, lacing her fingers through his and tugging him from the kitchen.

“And just where are you taking me, Mrs Black?”

Hermione leaned into him. “Back to your place,” she whispered. “I have a sexy little blue bodice and nobody to rip it for me.”

“Why, Mrs Black, I do believe I am just the man for the job.”

“Well, it’s nice to see you two getting along properly for a change,” Philip commented as he squeezed past them to reach the sitting room.

Hermione’s mouth fell. “Dad! You knew we were having a row? Why did you let us go on pretending like it was all blissful wedlock?”

The man took his time settling himself into a chair with a newspaper before he bothered answering her question. “Oh, I assumed it was just another of your little teacup tempests again.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call those little,” Sirius muttered, hand rubbing his stomach where the sword of Gryffindor had cut into him.

“They come and go like the tides, Sirius,” the man said. “You just have to learn to wait them out. Give her time and she’ll come round to your side of things.”

Sirius beamed. “She already has, actually. I—“ Any further comment was cut short by a hard elbow to his ribs.

“Alright, dad, we’re off,” Hermione kissed the man’s balding pate. “Tell mum not to be too disappointed. And we’ll be ‘round for dinner before I leave for school, okay?” Hermione stepped into the green flames and was whisked away just as Philip summoned Sirius in a hard, demanding voice.

She landed in the kitchen fire of Grimmauld Place, face stricken and terrified by the tone her father had taken. He had called to Sirius more severely than Hermione had ever heard in her life.

“Oh, dear,” Molly said. “Judging by your face, I’d gather things did not go well. Did Sirius not behave himself? I’m sorry, but a man like that…”

The woman continued to prattle on about the man and how irresponsible he was, but Hermione had no desire to listen even if she did have grey matter to spare. She was far too busy pacing before the fire, hands wringing themselves raw with worry as she tried to decipher the exact meaning of her father’s words and tone.

By the time the fire sputtered and erupted in the green flames that would carry Sirius back to her, she was all but convinced that her father’s show of affection toward her husband was nothing but a false front. Secretly, Philip hated him as much as her mother did, and he had called him back to warn him off, to threaten his life, to stab him mercilessly in some vital organ.

“What did he do?” she demanded, hand flying out to survey the man. There was no blood, but that didn’t mean there was no damage.

“I’m fine,” Sirius assured her, stilling her hands inside his own.

“Dad did not sound fine. He sounded murderous.”

“And he is. He wants me back on the team next Football Sunday to kill the other side.”

Hermione’s head dropped. “That was about football?”

“It’s a very important thing, Hermione. A battleground, if you will.”

“Bloody hell, you sound just like my dad. I have married my father.” She groaned and stomped away from him.

“Wait, so does this mean no bodice ripping tonight?” he shouted after her. “Damn. Hermione!”

Molly Weasley leaned back against the counter, watching as Sirius chased his wife from the kitchen with promises to never talk of football or any sport again, smile on her face and glass of whiskey in her hand. “Well, I don’t think he’ll be wanting this tonight. Thank Merlin that’s over with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with it till the end. I hope it's to your liking. 
> 
> I have to say I'm amazed at the difference a few years will make in reader response. The reviews I got this time around were very different (not in a bad way) from the first time I posted this on FFnet. 
> 
> I love you for reading. I love you for reviewing. THANK YOU!


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